I Was Singing In The Shower
by Camunki
Summary: That day, it was Karofsky in the shower, not Finn, and hell, Dave's a better singer than Hudson anyway. Glee AU with Dave in Glee Club; Kurtofsky, Karofsky/Kurt, Slash. Rating to increase in future.
1. Pilot

**Title****:** I Was Singing In The Shower.

**Pairing:** Kurtofsky (eventually.)

**Rating:** M for Mature. Less mature than my PWPs (did I mention there's a smidgen of PLOT here? D:)

**Warnings: **Because I'm a perv, this will include slash. Probably fairly graphic slash. That's two **GAY** men having **SEX**. If either of these things bother you, leave now.**  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, it would have THREE X's.

**Summary: **That day, it was Karofsky in the shower, not Finn, and hell if Dave's a better singer than Hudson anyway.

**Notes: **This is an AU, but it will contain spoilers for the whole of Glee eventually, even if I change things drastically. The AU starts as Glee does, in the Pilot. (Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, the random bell rings and 'doo doo doo's are supposed to be the sounds of the Glee scene transitions...)

I hope you enjoy this! Feel free to let me know, I'm kind of on the fence about this one!

* * *

_**I Was Singing In The Shower.**_

**Pilot  
**

The first time I ever consider I might be on the bendy side of the sexuality spectrum is after football practice, freshman year.

At this point, there is absolutely no way in hell I'll admit that the reason my eyes are glued to number 5's boxer-clad nether regions is because I'd quite like to reach over and grope them, but even I can hardly argue with an involuntary erection.

I wonder briefly how there is still enough blood to rush to my face as I heat up. There's a swirling feeling in my stomach that isn't the mortification but something else, and I _can't look away._ It's the kind of feeling you get when you drive past an accident: a perverse attraction. You don't _want_ to see it, but you can't shift your gaze.

Drawing my eyes away sharply, I grab my bag and cover my lap as subtly as I can, (which isn't very, but I try,) and prepare to wait until either my hard-on goes down or everyone clears the locker room. Number 5 lingers, which is a pain, because he's looking at me as if to say 'Dude, what are you doing?'

I try to think of an excuse for why I'm sat alone in the locker room, but am interrupted by Mr. Schuester waltzing in to see if anyone's gone near his stupid sign-up sheet.

They have, I know because I've been sat here for about twenty minutes now, pretending to text and fiddling with my bag, and have watched as thick-headed jocks like me have written oh-so-clever names like 'Butt Lunch' on it.

'Hola!' He greets us, and I reply with a weak _hola _in return. My head is still spinning and though my little problem has probably gone away by now, I'm not sure I want to get up and risk it.

Number 5 (who does have a name: Hudson. We used to be friends when we were kids but then he made fun of me for getting pubic hair, and I'd gotten all flustered because I didn't know why him looking at my dick made me feel all weird) leaves without showering. I guess the reason he was lingering was because _he_ was waiting for _me_ to leave. Probably self-conscious or something. A couple of the guys avoid the showers because they don't like people seeing them.

I avoid the showers because I don't like seeing other people. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm starting to get an idea why.

Not that I'm gay or anything.

I mean, I _can't_ be gay. I hate the color pink and I play hockey and football. I have broad shoulders and wear unfashionable clothing. I buy all my clothes at Target and was convinced until fairly recently that Alexander McQueen sang _Bohemian Rhapsody. _I'm nothing like _you,_ with your tight clothing and girly strut.

Oh, crap, Schuester's talking to me. In Spanish, no less. I try and figure out what he's saying, which I'm guessing gives me a sort of blank expression, because he shoots me a look of sympathy, before I answer him in flawless Spanish that 'Sorry, Mr. Schue, I was in my own little world.'

He stares in shock. Lots of people do that as soon as I exhibit an ounce of intelligence, but I've given up caring a long time ago. It's one of the downsides to the 'dumb as a brick' image. Even though the teachers mark my work, they probably think I make some geek do it.

Which is true, I guess. I do it myself, but the 'me' _they_ know doesn't. David Karofsky, superboy, model son, does it. I know that doesn't make sense, but you know what I mean. Well, no, you probably don't.

What I mean to say is that sometimes I feel like I'm two different people. Wait, scratch that, three people. First, I'm David, the perfect kid who gets perfect grades and plays for both teams, (bitch, don't even think it. I mean hockey and football and you _know_ it.) But then I'm also Karofsky, the monumental douchebag who throws kids into dumpsters and nails your lawn furniture to the roof.

And then we have number three. Let's call him Dave. Dave, the insecure, chubby kid who just wants to _fit in._ It's ridiculous, because wouldn't it just be easier to admit I kind of quite like Lady Gaga, even if she looks weird, and yeah, sure, I love Hockey, but every so often it would be nice to try belting out a show tune. But that's not the guy who goes to school at McKinley. That's the guy I leave at home, the guy that stays in his room and has _The Fame_ snuck in on his iPod amongst _The Red Hot Chili Peppers_ and _Pendulum. _The guy who actually doesn't _mind_ doing his homework that much. The guy who has a box of Disney movies stashed under his bed, like fucking _porn._

I can't _be_ that guy here. That guy wouldn't last five minutes in this hell-hole.

So I have to be Karofsky. Asshole extraordinaire, homophobic prick, fucking, pathetic, conforming sheep.

But that's all beside the point. Mr. Schue is smiling at me now, and then says something about Glee club and I zone out again. Next thing I know, he's leaving, and I say goodbye, watching him walk off.

Finally, I can have a freaking shower. Usually, I'd just stick it out and have one when I got home, but we're going out for some fancy meal with my dad's work colleagues tonight and I know I won't have time.

I strip down to my underwear and glance around before wrapping a towel around myself and dropping my boxers. Slightly paranoid, I know, but I've always been uncomfortable being naked around other guys.

_Shut up. _I'm not gay.

I throw the towel aside when I get into the shower and turn it up on full, sighing as hot water hits me. I roll my shoulders, feeling the ache of two hours of being slammed into repeatedly ebb away.

Now, I have quite a few irritating habits. I bite my nails, crack my knuckles and have a bit of a problem with sleepwalking. However, (and ask my parents if you don't believe me) my most annoying habit has got to be my singing in the shower. And I'm not talking under-your-breath, singing along to a song that was stuck in your head all day. I'm talking outright belting, the kind of volume that only really works when you let the song grab you by the nuts and steal your _soul._

Ahem. Anyway. Needless to say, my parents don't appreciate my shower serenades, so I take every opportunity I can while out of the house to sing in the gorgeous acoustics that porcelain tiles offer.

I love singing. Not because people tell me I'm good, I mean, I'm probably awful. I've never sung in front of people before. Hell, I've never _wanted _to sing in front of people; I hate being judged by others and I don't even know if my voice is any good. But singing itself? It's the most relieving thing ever. Hey, some guys work out, I belt out a tune. (I also hit things. But apparently that's not a suitable channel for my emotions, according to my Junior School Councilor. She recommended knitting.) So here, with the heat turned up on full and water crashing around my ears, I can really let go. I'm sure you do it too, not that you don't have creative outlets and all, but I can imagine you singing to yourself in the shower like this. Because, from what I know, you've got an amazing voice, not that I've heard it.

I pick a crooner – Buble. I've always been careful to hide my musical tastes from my friends, not that it's bad or particularly embarrassing, (I mean, hey, I haven't got _RENT _or Whitney Houston on here or anything,) but most guys just don't appreciate good music. I'm pretty sure Azimio's ipod is jam-packed full of rap and god knows what he'd do if faced with an actual tune.

I sway shamelessly to the sound of _Haven't Met You Yet_ echoing in the locker room, unable to stop myself bop along as I sing. I suck at dancing, that I'm sure of, not for lack of skill, but just because I simply don't have the right build. I feel clunky and awkward as I dance, not that anyone will ever know since dancing is for fags and losers and I'm definitely neither of those things.

I vent my frustrations in that little cubicle, letting go of all of today's problems: the football catch I missed, the math homework I left at home, the skinny kid I barged past in the corridor and the _feeling_ when it happened, like I'd been punched in the stomach.

It was you, of course. I've never spoken to you, but I know exactly who you are. I also know that the twist in my stomach when I looked up at your face isn't normal. Isn't _right._

(…Perhaps this would be a good time to be paying attention rather than singing, since Mr. Schuester just returned to put up a new, non-graffitied list. If I had been listening earlier, I would have heart him say exactly this, but I was being stupid, of course.)

I don't know what it _is_ about you. When I first saw you, you were wearing skinny jeans that hugged your hips and a tight t-shirt. You walked with a self-assured strut, but your eyes darted around like you were looking out for danger. Right then, at that very moment, I felt like someone had removed all the air in the room and I just stopped and _stared._ This, naturally, was an idiotic move because I stopped just in front of Hudson, who had smacked right into me and gone flying sideways onto you.

(Schuester's watching me, not that I realize, and he's slack-jawed. Honestly, you'd think he's never seen a naked teenager bearing his soul in the form of song before.)

You'd stared at him in horror, and I'd dragged him off you, red-faced and apologetic before I practically ran away. Hudson had given me a confused look before shrugging and sauntering off with Puckerman. You'd stared after me, a curious expression painting your face.

(And now he's walking away, absolutely determined to find a way of getting me into that club.)

See, that's the problem. I've seen you in the halls, I've heard all about you, I've joined in with some of the pranks the boys play on you, and I'll admit I've thought about talking to you a thousand times, but how could I just _do_ that? Just walk up to you and start talking? You'd think I was crazy. Not to mention, you probably remember the pee-balloon incident.

I smile bitterly as I finish the song. Oh, Buble, you know me too well. Because I know who you are, Kurt Hummel, I just haven't _met you yet. _

Half an hour later, I sit in Mr. Schuester's office and wonder how in the name of God drugs got into my locker.

* * *

~ _Briiiing ~_

* * *

Okay, so Rachel Berry is officially the scariest girl I've ever met.

The sound of _Grease _is coming at me from all angles and I clutch the sheet music even though _everyone_ knows this song. Perhaps I can use it to bat away the crazy girl now clinging to my shirt.

I didn't think I was _that_ good a singer.

'Oh, _hell_ to the no!'

Scrap that, I take it back. Scariest girl alive: Mercedes Jones.

Seriously. These girls are all insane. The Goth chick hasn't said much, but she has a killer stutter, Berry is a law-suit waiting to happen, and Mercedes, well, the girl has a serious attitude problem, if you ask me. Or maybe that's part of her image. I don't know.

I never did understand girls.

But _anyway._ The reason I'm here is because Schuester called me into his office and very calmly asked me how long it was I'd had a drug problem.

Now, I don't know much about drugs. Don't get me wrong, I've been offered weird colored pills at parties before but I've always said no. Not because I'm a good kid or whatever, but because drugs make you more confident and you go all crazy and shit and I do _not_ want to think about what I might do under the influence. Thankfully, I'm a heavyweight when it comes to alcohol, so I can drink most guys under the table without losing my mind too much.

Uh, off track again. So there's Mr. Schue, telling me that I could go to prison and shit, which I'm pretty sure they can't do because they have no real proof, right? But…that doesn't mean he can't tell my old man.

Prison scares me a hell of a lot less than my father finding out about this. So I just say '_Please_ don't tell my dad.' Kind of pathetic, I know. My dad isn't the devil or anything, he's just a _dad._ I can tell you _exactly_ what would happen if he found out:

First, the _look._ The glance in my direction that really says it all.

Then, _David, I'm not angry. I'm just disappointed._ As if he doesn't _know_ that's a thousand times worse. As if he doesn't know that everything I do, every lie I say, every front I put up every damn day is to try and make sure he isn't disappointed with me.

Then the reasoning. _David, it's not that I don't believe you, but if you didn't put them there, how did the drugs get in your locker? _Or worse, _you just haven't been yourself lately. Your grades have dropped, you speak back to me more…I'm beginning to wonder if you should be spending so much time with that hockey team…maybe you just need a creative outlet…_or, the absolute worst, the killer line: _I just expected more of you._

And finally, the punishment. Not that it would be harsh or anything, a week's ban of the xbox, a month's grounding. The punishments themselves aren't the worst part, but the guilt of having done something _wrong,_ oh, he never lets me forget that. Paul Karofsky is nothing if not a reasonable man, and the only person in the world capable of making me feel like a child again in an instant.

Well, yeah. That's exactly what would go down and _fuck_ if I'm letting that happen when I didn't do squat.

I listen to the options, and while detention doesn't sound too bad, I'd have to tell my dad I'd done _something_ wrong and he's want to know every fucking detail so…

So, glee club it is.

'I'm _Beyonce_, I 'aint no Kelly Roland!' Mercedes is arguing with Schuester now and I zone out for a minute, letting my eyes drift to where you're standing. Your hair is ruffled, since Rachel practically attacked you in that song, and your face is flushed with embarrassment. It's not _cute_ or anything. I mean, some gay dude may think it is, but I certainly don't. No fucking way. Your rosy cheeks don't at all compliment your lips. The lips that are perfect, pouty, pink and…moving. Oh, shit, you're talking.

'And it's the first time we've been kind of good.'

You call me _good._ You, the boy with the voice of an _angel,_ think _I'm_ good.

I try to tell myself that the butterflies that have just exploded in my stomach are just because of your amazing talent. I don't think I'm fooling anyone.

'Let's run it again.' Mercedes drawls after her sassy intervention, and Mr. Schue's eyes light up as we launch into song.

I glance towards you, absorbed in the sheet music even though you haven't been given the main part you deserve. Your hips are moving slightly to the song and I can't help but let my eyes wander downwards.

Then I look at the other Glee kids, and try to tell myself that I'm just as interested in Rachel Berry's ass.

I'm barely even fooling _myself._

* * *

_~ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'Hey, um. Coach Tanaka?' I think my heart is about to stop beating from fear as I try and get the sweaty man's attention. I have to tell him I can't make Saturday afternoon's practice because of Glee.

He's going to kill me.

Or worse, he's going to _know _there's something wrong with me. I mean, what _normal_ guy wants to get up and sing show tunes? What normal guy wants to hang out with a bunch of losers or heck, affiliate themselves with the Gay Kid of McKinley High? Because that's what will happen. If I even _talk_ to you, they'll pick up on it, I just know it.

'I can't make practice Saturday. I…I have Glee Club.'

For a moment, I think this might be okay. Coach Tanaka doesn't look any more angry than usual. I mean, his face is kind of naturally contorted that way, so it's hard to tell.

'Glee Club? Since when did you sing, Karofsky?' He sounds almost suspicious and he's squinting at me. Or, again, that might just be his face.

'Well, uh. I…Mr. Schue heard me singing, and said I had a good voice, so-'

'Schuester put you up for this?' As soon as he says it, I know I've done something wrong.

'Uh…yeah.' I say, and his shoulders tense as he shakes his head.

'You can't miss practice.' He replies firmly, the anger in his voice barely disguised.

'But Coach-'

'I don't want to hear it! You make your decision – you're a football player or you're a _singer!'_ The shouting shocks me a little, so I just nod dumbly, and walk away, clutching my helmet.

Noah Puckerman is watching me as I leave, and starts to walk beside me.

'Hey! What's going on?' He asks. We're not exactly friends, but not enemies either. He's pals with Hudson, I know that, and his reputation is probably the most famous in the school, but I rarely interact with him outside of McKinley, save for the occasional jock and cheerio party.

'Oh, he's just mad I have to miss practice this Saturday.' I sigh, and Puck shoots me a confused look. Oh, right. Excuse. 'I…um, I have to have surgery.'

Bad excuse. Why would I have to have _surgery?_

'What kind of surgery?'

Oh, shit. Shit. I try to think of something I'd have an operation for. Instead, I notice that 'Don't Stop Believing' has started playing somewhere, and for a moment I'm distracted. This is a pretty awesome song.

Puck is staring at me, and I realize I haven't answered. Damnit! Okay, what surgery did my Uncle Sammy have last month? Think, Karofsky, _think!_

'I'm…uh. I'm having my prostate…uh, out.'

'Man, that's a tough break.'

'Uh, yeah.' I start to walk away, thinking that I'm safe, that me being in Glee Club is still a secret, that maybe I've got away with it.

'Especially since you'll be needing it now you've joined _homo-explosion.'_

I'm wrong.

'But at least Hummel still has one, you'll just always have to screw that faggot instead.'

'Don't call him that.' I turn around fast enough that my head spins, but that might be from anger too.

'Oh, would you listen to that? Looks like Karofsky _is _getting a piece of Hummel.' Azimio, who was standing a little way back, has stepped forward to join Puck. _Journey_ seems to get louder and louder.

'Shut the hell up, Azimio! Kurt isn't-' I can barely hear myself think, it's so loud.

'Ooh, and first name basis too, you must be in _love!'_

Oh, god, why won't it stop? Why can't I ignore the music, like everyone else can? Why do I have this ache to sing along, like some musical freak? I'm a fucking football player, I don't _sing!_ And I don't dance around in public like some…like some…

'I said, shut _up!_ I'm not a fucking faggot!'

The world goes silent.

Everyone in range of me is staring, as I pretty much just yelled my lungs out. But it seems to cool Puck and Azimio off a bit, because _hello,_ if I was gay, I wouldn't be able to say stuff like that, right? Since then I'd totally be insulting myself.

Which I suppose I do pretty often as well.

'Dude, chill. We're just messing with you. We know you're not a homo.' Azimio has his hands raised defensively, but there's that look in his eye that I recognize. The look he got when he realized that jokily calling his sister fat wasn't the best idea when her boyfriend had just dumped her. Or like when he realized that Hudson's dad died in war, and stopped talking about how dying in battle sounded like an awesome way to go. The guy likes to run his mouth, but he knows when a joke goes too far. Whether he chooses to be a dick and _continue_ joking or not depends on his mood.

'Can we please just drop the Glee thing, okay?' I say, and he nods, almost knowingly, while Puck sneers and makes some snide comment.

Azimio's still watching as I leave, and I'm pretty sure he can see my face burning even from behind.

And now _Journey_ is stuck in my head. Just fucking brilliant.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

'You're very talented.' Rachel saunters up to me while I'm in the lunch queue and starts making eyes at me. Thankfully, I'm too startled by her comment to notice.

'Really?' I say, and I genuinely mean it. People don't generally describe me as _talented_. Talent_less_, sure, but that's because I act stupid and pretend not to get stuff in class. I do remember my English teacher once calling me talented at a parent-teacher conference, but she'd followed it with a slightly skeptical comment about plagiarism, probably thinking I'd used some essay website. Yeah, I'm _that_ good at acting dumb.

'Yeah. I would know; I'm very talented too.' I try not to laugh: Rachel seems a nice girl and all…okay, scrap that, she seems like a self-absorbed brat, but she can't be that bad right? 'I think the rest of the team expects us to become an item.' Then she says something about being an ingénue, which only confirms that, yeah, she may just be a brat.

'Uh, I'm not really looking for a relationship right now.' I say, very carefully. I get the feeling that she might attack me if I don't let her down gently.

'Oh, that's alright!' I notice her voice has risen in pitch, but I try to ignore it. 'It's more dramatic when our feelings are bottled up, then build to a startling crescendo! If we started a relationship now, it would lack all the credentials for a real epic romance!' I'm not entirely sure what a crescendo is, but Rachel has definitely claimed back the Scariest Girl award.

This is not going to be easy, I can tell.

* * *

_~ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'You and your friends threw pee balloons at me.'

That's the first thing you ever say to me personally. You glare up at me as I walk into the Glee rehearsal, and the first thing I notice is that your eyes are slightly red.

Okay, so it's not a great start. Clearly, the pee-balloon incident _isn't_ behind you.

'Uh. Yeah.' I say, dumbly. 'I'm sorry.' And I really, really mean it.

But you're still glaring. 'I don't mean that time before, I mean _yesterday afternoon!'_ you say, venomously. 'They cornered me after your stupid football practice and said that they were going to punish me for being…for _turning_ you!'

'Turning me? What, I'm a vampire now?'

'You _know_ what I'm talking about!' Your voice cracks and so does my heart a little bit. Your eyes are definitely red, so I guess you must have been crying. I bet they ruined one of your outfits again.

'Look, I'm sorry, Hummel. I didn't know. But…you can't really be mad at me, _I_ didn't do anything.' I don't mean to sound like such a jerk, but that's how it comes out, and suddenly your hands are balled into fists and you're closer to me, eyes poisonous.

'Oh, really? You know, I was perfectly content to let you wriggle into Glee because you're talented, and, quite frankly, Rachel's dressing better because she's trying to impress you.' Rachel, standing next to you, goes pink but pouts and puts her hands to her hips.

You continue: 'But now I _know_ you're just a homophobic Neanderthal incapable of redemption, I don't think I'm going to forgive your past crimes!'

'They told you what I said?' I realize you must know that I used the word _faggot_ at practice the other day, and I can't help but feel guilt clawing at my stomach.

'What did he say?' Mercedes butts in, curious.

'He called me…the f-word.' Your eyes close as you shake your head, and I wonder, for the millionth time, what you're thinking.

Wait…what? I called you…what? Oh, no. No, no, no.

'Oh, no, you _didn't._' Mercedes' voice is dangerously low, and I throw up my hands in defense, shaking my head viciously. My words come out in a high-pitched babble.

'No, _no!_ I didn't call you anything, I swear! Really– I told them _not_ to call you that, and then they called me gay and-'

'Wait, you…' The anger in your face abruptly abates. Your eyebrows relax and your eyes widen, suddenly gleaming. 'You _defended_ me?' Then they narrow suspiciously. 'Why?'

'We don't need the deets, Kurt!' Mercedes interjects, and this time I don't mind. 'Even if he used the f-word himself, I think you should be thanking him for telling them to back off.' Mercedes seems to have forgiven me, (I get the feeling I might get a stern talking to later, although I think I can live with that,) but you and Rachel are still glaring.

'You nailed all my lawn furniture to my roof.' You whisper. Oh, yeah. I'd forgotten about that one.

'Um-'

'You slushied me _this morning.'_ Rachel cuts in, and I raise my hands in defense.

'That was actually Puck.' I retort, and her glare subsides a little.

'Look, I know I've been awful to you guys in the past.' You make a noise of derision. 'And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said _faggot_ when I yelled yesterday. I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about…I mean.' I swear under my breath, then inhale sharply and start again.

'Please believe me when I say I was trying to…I don't know, protect you guys or something.' I deliberately avoid specifying you. Then I sigh, my shoulder drooping. 'All I'm asking for is a second chance. I think we make a great team. I've made my decision…if Coach Tanaka wants me off the team, then _fine._ I want to be here, to be a part of something. To be _good_ at something.'

'You _are_ good.' I hear you admit, and then watch as you turn red. 'For a Neanderthal, anyway.' Of course it had to be a back-handed compliment. You couldn't possibly _not_ be a bitch.

'Thanks. I guess.' I grumble. I don't look right at you. I never look at you when you're looking at me, I mean, what if our eyes met? You'd _know,_ I know you would know that I'm…

Whatever I am.

'But, _anyway, _we have a bigger problem.' You say dramatically, and just like that, it's over.

Everyone starts babbling about Mr. Schue's leaving, but I drown it out. I'm intrigued at how you and everyone else seem content to forgive me so quickly. I'm mostly curious about you, to be honest. Do you really not care about the bullying? Do you really forgive me, or are you just trying to keep me in Glee?

'So, David.' Oh, damn, Rachel's talking to me. 'Do you have any ideas of what we should sing? I'll sing lead female vocals, of course, and you'll be singing male lead.'

I resist rolling my eyes at her. Clearly she's trying to flatter me by letting me pick a song; I'm sure she has plenty planned for the future. But for now…what was the song I had stuck in my head yesterday? Oh, yeah.

'Any of you guys know _Journey?'_

* * *

_~ Ba-da ba-da ba-da ba-da...doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	2. Showmance

**I'm really surprised to see how many people seem to be reading this, especially since it was just a silly little idea I had whilst very bored. I hope I don't disappoint you all~  
**

**Rating:** This chapter isn't M, but the story will be eventually.

**Warnings: **Future slash, homophobia, all that jazz. **  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, it would have _three_ X's.

**Notes: **This whole story is going to be quite snippet-ey at first, simply because I'm sticking to the Glee order, but missing out massive chunks of...well, everyone but Kurt and Karofsky. So, yeah, it will slowly get more cohesive, I swear! XD

**Enjoy!  
**

* * *

**Showmance**

The second time I stick up for you, I end up in a dumpster. I see the football team surrounding you, and walk over to calmly and non-violently convince them not to make you take a dumpster-dive.

It doesn't work. It takes three guys to even get me in, and another two to stop me struggling, but soon I'm lying amongst the trash. Moments later, you land on top of me.

I flail and panic and you just roll your eyes at me, casually trying to stand up when the others leave. I suppose you're trying to appear indifferent and diva-like, the way you always do, but you slip on something and fall back down, right onto me.

Our faces are inches apart, and my breath is knocked out of me, both literally and figuratively because you're so close. My heart is beating so hard I think you must be able to feel it. I struggle to push us apart, but end up just wrapping my arms around you and falling deeper into the trash.

I try not to make eye contact with you. For the past few weeks, I've barely talked to you, even in Glee, but you haven't commented on it or anything. Maybe it's a personal thing, but Artie doesn't really talk to you either. Heck, I barely ever see you converse with a guy. You just stick with the girls, mostly Mercedes, occasionally Tina and, when you aren't trading verbal blows, Rachel.

If I didn't know better, I would assume you didn't like me. I mean, I know we haven't had the best history, but I do know that you don't really hate me anymore. But it's more than that. I don't talk to you because I'm afraid of you, and that's why you don't talk to me, or Artie. Or Finn and Puck and the other football players. It's because you can see it, their fear. The fear of being called gay, the fear of attraction, _your _attraction. They don't want to make you feel like there's a connection when there isn't one.

I'm different: I'm afraid because there _is_ a connection and I damn well know it. You, however, seem oblivious.

_Seemed_ oblivious. Staring me right in the eyes like this, I can't help but wonder if you…well, if you're _wondering._

Because, yeah, we've been staring for a good couple of minutes now, in total silence.

Then, without reason or rhyme, we both burst into laughter. And we're lying here; limbs tangled, bits of trash all over us, in hysterics, as if the world can't touch us. But that's the thing – the world's throwing us into dumpsters and we _just don't give a fuck._

'You know they're going to torture you for this, right?' You ask, and I can't help but laugh again in return. You raise your eyebrows at me. 'You're _weird,_ Karofsky.' But you're looking at me with an expression of curiosity rather than loathing, which I think is a good sign.

'Is weird bad?'

'We're in Glee Club, David. Weird is good.' Your voice has gone really soft and it almost makes me bypass the fact you just called me _David._ (Screw Dave. David sounds so _sexy.)_

I nearly miss your whisper of 'Very good.' as we climb out of the dumpster, me practically picking you up and hoisting you out. _Nearly,_ but not quite.

Azimio won't talk to me for days. We barely ever hang out now anyway, and I'm pretty sure it's because he refuses to talk to anyone in Glee and I'm a certified loser now. But, you know what? I'm not exactly sure how much I care. Because…well, weird is good, right?

Okay, I'm lying. I do care. I care that people in the halls are looking pointedly at me and then turning to their friends and giggling. I care that I got my very first slushy yesterday morning. I care that Azimio isn't talking to me – he's my best friend, of course I fucking care. But right then, at that moment in the dumpster? I _genuinely _felt like the world could suck my dick. And I don't know _why_, Hummel, but _you_ make me feel like that, like I could take on the school.

But when I'm alone, I'm terrified. Terrified that people are going to start the rumors…no, the rumors have started already. Terrified that people will actually _believe_ the rumors. I mean, sure, they can call me a fag all they like, but if there's no evidence…

_Is_ there evidence?

Wait, fuck, no. There can't be evidence for something that isn't true.

Because it's _not._ I'm not gay, and I'm _not_ a loser. I walk tall and I carry a _big stick._ No, that's not a fucking euphemism.

I'm not gay.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

We've been attempting to perform _Le Freak_ for the better part of an hour now and, honestly? We suck. We _really_ suck. Mercedes has pointed out how much we suck, and now Mr. Schue is all mad and shit.

I hate disco. I hate disco dancing, I hate disco music and I _hate_ disco clothing.

And this _song. _It's…it's…

'It's really gay.' You say, and that pretty much sums it up. With those words, I know that I can't sing this song if my life depends on it.

'If we have to do this song, I'm quitting.' It's an empty threat, but I doubt Mr. Schue is aware of that.

'Come on, David, don't be like that.'

'Do you have any idea how much crap I'm getting for being in the Glee club? If we perform this song, I'm _dead!_ The hockey team already threatened to turn me into a human slushy if I didn't quit!'

'I'm sorry, guys, we don't have time to discuss this. We're doing this song on Friday at the pep-assembly.'

The pep-assembly. Where the whole school will be watching us. Oh, fuck.

'They're going to throw fruit at us. And I _just_ had a facial.' You quip, and I wish on everything I can think of that that's all they'll do.

I'm not sure which is a bigger problem right now: the fact that my reputation is about to be shattered into a zillion pieces, or that Rachel just _won't leave me alone._

We've been making posters all afternoon, and I think she thinks we're flirting. We got caught and sent to Figgins' office, and I think she thinks this is some sort of bonding experience.

And then she drops the bombshell: 'Do you want to practice for the assembly tomorrow after school?'

'Rachel. We…uh, we need to talk.' This is going to be painful. So, so painful.

'What is it?' The hope in her eyes is practically _shining_.

'I… I know where this is going, Rachel. And we…we can't be together. I'm…I'm…' Oh my god. Why can't I speak? Why can't I just say no?

No, I know why.

It's because, I know if I refuse, that's it. It means I'm not…_normal._ Because a normal guy would be attracted to her, right?

'What are you?' Rachel asks, innocently.

If only she knew how often I asked myself that question.

'I'm…' I glance to the left as Quinn Fabray and her cronies strut past. 'Celibate.'

And then I realize what I just said.

'You're celibate?' She echoes, and I notice that Quinn has stopped.

'Um. Yeah. I can't risk the…er, the temptation.'

'That's…' she looks startled, and I internally leap for joy. No girl would want to be with a guy who won't put out, it's… 'perfect!'

Oh, crud.

'That's absolutely perfect, David! I want to be at _least_ 25 when I have sex, because it's _important, _you know?' No, no I don't know. What I also don't know is that Rachel had gone to see Miss Pillsbury earlier after a certain throwing up incident that was apparently my fault. If I had known that Miss Pillsbury had encouraged her to find similar interests between us, I wouldn't be surprised when she blurts out, 'We should join the celibacy club together!'

She whirls around to where Quinn is stopped staring at us with a bemused expression, and immediately starts babbling to the blond about joining her club. Quinn simply looks her up and down, and with a sigh, tells her that they have to let _anyone_, (with a roll of the eyes) join.

And that's how I end up in the Celibacy Club.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

I sit down next to Hudson and try my very hardest not to die of embarrassment.

Why am I _here?_ Why did I have to say I was _celibate?_ Why couldn't I say I was…I don't know, dying of a rare, incurable disease? Or a spy? Or…an alien sent from outer space to observe the human race? Any of those excuses would have worked better. Okay, maybe not, but none of them would have landed me _here._

'I think I'm going to kill myself. I'm serious.' You and me both, Jacob.

We're now on the topic of skirts, and I just don't get it. I mean, sure, they show off a lot of leg, but what use are they except easy access? Surely they must just get cold…bits. Ergh.

I wonder what you would look like in a skirt. Wait, no, _fuck_. Shut up, shut up, shut up! I do _not_ want to think about that, it's disgusting!

I drown out the rest of the guys' talking and when the girls come back in, I take turns balloon thrusting with Jacob. Not thrusting _with_ Jacob, I take turns to do it with Rachel. Not _do it…_ah_,_ fuck. Jacob and I take turns balloon thrusting with Rachel.

My balloon doesn't break.

The rest of the time, I sit and wonder if Quinn Fabray's hair is naturally blonde, until Rachel starts a celibacy riot, and drags me with her as she storms out.

Watching her, I decide she's actually kind of cool. In a weird, terrifying way. Which is a shame, because a couple of hours later, we're sat drinking virgin cosmos in a fucking _picnic,_ and I have to break her heart.

'Rachel, I lied to you. I'm not celibate.' And here's the worst thing to ever say to a girl: 'I'm just not…I'm not into you, I'm sorry.' I can't possibly sound any more pathetic as I say it, but there really is no other way, since she's been dropping hints for the better part of an hour, trying to get me to kiss her.

I won't lie, seeing her face right then breaks _my_ heart for a moment. I very, very briefly consider pretending to like her just to make her feel better. 'There's someone else, isn't there?' She says, mournfully, _accurately. _

'How did you know?'

'I know I haven't mentioned it, because it tends to freak people out,' She sighs with dramatic flair, flicking her hair back for added effect, 'but I'm kind of psychic.'

Oh, dear God. She knows. She knows I have some weird, fucked up obsession with you. She _knows._

'Plus, you were staring right at her in the celibacy club today.'

Or perhaps not.

'It's kind of obvious, I mean, you only said you were celibate to impress her, when she walked past, right?' Rachel continues, sighing dramatically.

'Um, right?' I must look utterly shellshocked, because that's how I feel, but Rachel, oh-so-observant, ever-so-slightly-psychic Rachel, doesn't seem to notice.

'It's such a shame you had to choose her, though, since she's so attached to Finn.'

It takes me a while, but I finally clock on: Rachel thinks I'm in love with Quinn Fabray.

'Which is stupid anyway, he's way too good for that bimbo. I mean, sorry! I'm sure she's really great…'

And apparently Rachel has a bit of a thing for Hudson?

This might work out after all.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

You and I haven't spoken since the dumpster incident, and I'm beginning to wonder if I made it all up in my head.

But then it happens.

In _Push It, _you slap me on the butt and wink. I'm pretty sure it was a joke, but that doesn't stop me from changing the routine and grabbing you instead of Rachel and _properly_ grinding my hips against you.

I've never touched anyone like that, and even though we were barely touching, it sends heat rushing through my whole body. I can feel the blood rushing up to my face and down south. For a moment, before we jump back into the routine, you stare up at me with wide, wide eyes and I try to read your expression. I'm not entirely sure if it's shock or loathing, but I grin in return, and you smile hesitantly back.

I try not to notice the flushing of my cheeks and the fact that this moment has been added to my wank-bank for the whole of eternity. I think I've forgotten most of the words to this song, too. Not to mention, Mr. Schue's going to _kill_ us. But for that moment right there, this whole _Push It _charade is worth it.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	3. Acafellas

_**(AN: Sorry for reposting, I'm having some trouble with FFn D:)**_

**Rating:** Uh, M for swearing, 'cause I'm sure I swear in there somewhere. Other than that, it's tame.

**Warnings: **Future slash, swearing, a dash of angst. **  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, well, I'd get to _watch_ Glee on TV, rather than having to stream. Pft.

**Notes: **Not much to say for this one, actually. Acafellas didn't have a huge amount to work with, so this is pretty short, but enjoy nonetheless! The next chapter, Preggers, will be longer, and should be up soon! :D

Enjoy~!

* * *

**Acafellas**

'Have you ever kissed anybody?' Mercedes asks innocently as we stand by the lockers. I feel my blood freeze. Kurt is applying hairspray beside me and I'm not sure which one of us she's talking to.

'Yes,' you reply, and suddenly my blood isn't frozen, it's boiling and if I had a little less self-control I'd be holding you against the lockers _demanding_ to know who had kissed you so I could beat the _crap_ out of him… 'If by _someone_ you mean the tender crook of my elbow.'

Oh, right. So maybe I overreacted for a second there. Anger issues, remember?

You turn around, closing your locker door, and making me look like a bit of a creeper, watching in my peripheral vision while not so subtly rearranging the books in my locker for the third time. 'No, I haven't.' You sigh. 'But I want to.'

I try very, very, _very_ hard not to notice that your eyes flick towards me for a split second.

Then I try even harder not to read anything into it.

I fail on both accounts.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

'Dave!' Oh, Rachel. What would my life be without my completely naïve buddy? I've grown attached to her over these past few weeks, I'll admit. I mean, she can be a truly terrible person at times, but on other days, she's as sweet as a button.

Today isn't one of those days.

'So, Dave, I have a plan to break up Finn and Quinn, so that we can pick up the tragically heartbroken pieces!' She announces with the certainty of John Stamos and the air of that blond chick in Mean Girls that I can't remember the name of.

'Rachel.' I say, my voice level. 'You're awful.'

'No, Dave, I'm _single._ There's a difference.'

'Single or desperate?' I'm actually teasing (mostly) and she knows it, but she punches me lightly on the arm anyway.

I think if I were gay, (not to sound repetitive, but I'm _not,)_ Rachel would be my 'fag-hag' or whatever the term is. I mean, we hang out and it's not even awkward now that she thinks I like Quinn. I like her, even though she's kind of crazy, I think it's refreshing to be around a girl who _isn't_ bleach-blond and wearing a cheerios outfit. Plus, she knows Broadway like her own reflection, and I don't have to pretend not to like it around her, so I'm learning a lot.

'So, what is your amazing plan, then?' I say, partly out of curiosity. Obviously, I don't want to steal Quinn from Finn, and have no intention of breaking up a perfectly happy couple, but I get the feeling that no matter what I do, Rachel will carry out her master plan.

'Well, you and I are going to pretend to date, to drive him mad with jealousy – very _El Tango de Roxanne –_ and then he'll have no choice but to break up with Quinn and fight you for me!'

I don't know what the Tango Rosanne is but I'm pretty sure I don't want to perform it with Rachel, so I raise my eyebrows at her dubiously.

'Uh, no offense, Rach, but that plan really blows.' She huffs and crosses her arms, and I get the feeling she already knew. I look at her, and suddenly realize that she looks almost mournful at the moment. Perhaps she likes Finn more than she lets on.

'Rachel?' I say, quietly. 'Does…uh, I don't want to sound mean or anything, but does Finn actually even know that you…um, exist?'

Her face pretty much says it all.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

Today is not going well. Not only do we have to raise eight _thousand_ dollars to get some midget to teach us how to dance, (what was wrong with Mr. Schue's routines anyway? They were easy to remember!) we've ended up doing a freaking carwash, with the cheerios in skimpy outfits! I've had to stand here asserting my masculinity by pretending to ogle skinny blond chicks for the last half an hour, while trying to ignore the fact that you're wearing this white coat thing that's practically making you glow under the beaming sun.

And why the hell are the cheerios here anyway? All I know is that last week, after our…er, how did Mr. Schue describe it? Oh, yeah, our 'completely inappropriate and actually_ embarrassing'_ performance of _Push It, _the Cheerios suddenly turned up_. _Mine and Kurt's little amendment wasn't mentioned, but Rachel did give me a very odd look at the time. Then again, she still thinks I'm madly in love with Quinn.

I sigh, dipping the sponge I'm holding into a bucket of suds. Rachel is standing next to me, chatting away about some Broadway musical that I would be vaguely interested in (not that I'm trying to match your tastes or anything,) if it weren't for the scene unfolding around me.

Because it's around about now that all hell breaks loose.

'You busted my window! How could you do that? You _busted _my _window_!' You wail, flailing slightly and rapidly looking back and forth from your car window to the diva that just threw a brick through it.

'Well, you busted my heart.' And with a huff, Mercedes storms off.

I run over to you, still coated in bubbles. You're staring at your window now, your face downcast.

'What _happened?'_

'She busted my window!'

'I can see that, Kurt!' I roll my eyes. 'Why the hell did she do it?'

'I…I think she thought we were dating.' Your eyes dart about in panic, and I feel my chest ache a little. And oh, dear. Poor Mercedes. 'I…think I hurt her.'

The pain in your voice breaks my heart, and I know there's something you're not telling me, but I push it to the back of my mind. I say, 'I'm going to talk to Mercedes, okay?' and after you nod sadly, I follow her, feeling your eyes burning into my back.

The first thing I notice when I find her in the empty choir room is that Mercedes is crying. I sit down next to her, suddenly wishing I had your expertise when it comes to women.

'Are you alright?' I ask, and immediately regret it. She just glares at me through her tears and groans loudly.

'How could I be so stupid?' She says between sobs. I glance her way, and after a few awkward moments, I decide to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leans into it, but at the same time, looks up at me with a raised eyebrow.

'You're not stupid.' I say, softly. 'And believe me, I know stupid: I'm on the hockey team _and_ the football team.' She chuckles lightly.

'I was pretty dumb. And to think, before Quinn said he wasn't, I was sure he was gay.'

I pause, not understanding what she just said. 'Uh, Mercedes? I'm not trying to be…um, stereotypical, or anything. But…I'm pretty sure Kurt _is_ gay.'

'I thought so too! Even when Quinn and the others…' she trails off, shaking her head, 'Get this, he's in love with _Rachel.'_

I'll admit, that one takes me by surprise.

Okay, brain. Time to start up again. The words you just heard were 'he's in love with Rachel.'

You're in love with Rachel. _Rachel._ (And just when I was starting to like her!) Is it possible that I've been deluding myself, and you're _not_ gay, just one of those really camp guys? And you're, good god, you're in love with Rachel. Rachel fucking Berry.

I try and disguise the high pitch of my voice and how strained I sound, 'You…you should speak with him. I know you're upset, but I don't think he meant to hurt you. If he's in…in love with Rachel –' it hurts to even say it out loud, '-then we should support him.'

She's now staring at me with a mixed expression I can't figure out. I see confusion in there, but also something else. Something like understanding, like she's had a sudden epiphany.

'I'll apologize tomorrow.' She says with a very slight smile. We stand up and I wonder if I should hug her. Would it be giving the wrong signals? Would she think I'm interested in her? Maybe, but according to my mom, I'm the best hugger she knows, and Mercedes _really_ looks like she needs a hug.

I don't look at her, but pull her into a tight hug which lasts just long enough for her to let out a deep breath. 'Thanks…Dave.'

And then she's strutting into the corridor like nothing happened and I can't help but admire her sassiness. I think it's something you'll admire too. At least I hope so, because you and Mercedes make an adorable couple. Of BFFs, I mean.

So, yeah. Tomorrow rolls around and I've done my good deed for the week. I've helped out both you, Mercedes and the Glee Club. Soon I might become a genuinely good person. Maybe.

Or maybe not, I think, as I follow Mercedes from her locker, stealthy and ninja-ish, with the full intention of spying on you. What? I can't always be good; it's too much effort.

When I get there, sneakily concealed around a corner, I realize I've missed the beginning of the conversation, but she's definitely apologized as she promised and hey, I seem to have come in at a key point.

'I lied to you.' You're saying, and already your eyes are full of tears. 'I don't like Rachel.'

A glance over your shoulder, a pause to let someone walk out of earshot. Then, you say them; the two words that make everything in the world seem just that little bit harder.

'I'm gay.'

I already knew it, despite all of the lies and denial. I already knew what you were. But somehow, hearing it out loud, hearing you _say_ it makes everything different. Makes it real. Makes it like it's a big deal, something that has to be announced because, hey, you've _different_ and if you don't let people know, they might not realize. And if they don't realize, they treat you just like everyone else, and gosh, we can't have _that,_ now, can we?

People claim to be above discrimination, but that's all bullshit as far as I'm concerned. I've seen it, the way people change when they learn something new about you. They're _careful,_ cautious, and afraid to make mistakes and cause offense. _Afraid_. As if you're some sort of monster that will hunt them down in the night if they offend you. Well, perhaps not in your case, since I don't think you could ever be a _monster._ People would be more likely to put a bow on you and call you a pet. Wait, off topic, Dave!

'Why didn't you just tell me?' Mercedes asks and a bitter laugh rises in my throat. She can't understand how it is, to have something about you so different, so_...wrong_ in the eyes of the world that you have to announce it. Or hide it, for that matter.

'Because…I've never told anyone.'

And then Mercedes is rattling off an adorable speech about how you shouldn't be ashamed of who you are and a tear is streaking down your face because you _want_ to be able to do what she says, you _want_ to be proud of who you are but you _can't,_ you just _can't._

'I'm just not that confident, I guess.'

And with that, you walk away, leaving Mercedes to watch your retreating back, tears in her eyes. And in mine. Because, no matter how different our circumstances are, Kurt, I've realized one thing: we're the same. We can't admit it, but we're different from other people. I don't understand what I am…I don't want to. But there's something not right, I know that. No, that's not the word. It's not _wrong_, even if people see it that way, it's just not…normal. And that's the thing; we're both so afraid to be abnormal, even you, and you _pride_ yourself in being different.

It's not cowardice, but it is fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of hatred. And, for me, worse than all of that, fear of _fear._ To have people look at me and see someone _different,_ to have to look away, to be afraid to catch my eye…I can't go through that. And I don't think you can either, because deep down, all you want is to be loved.

It seems we're both just _not that confident,_ in the end.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	4. Preggers

**Rating:** M again...I, well, Dave swears a lot.

**Warnings: **Blah blah, slash, blah...**  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, well, I'd get to _watch_ Glee on TV, rather than having to stream. Pft.

**Notes: **Longest-ass chapter ever. At least, for me. You can probably see why it took so long. Plus, I'm pretty much dead of exhaustion now! Haha!

In other news, I got a tumblr account! It's under the name 'Camunki', and any tips on what I'm supposed to post or how to work the site are greatly appreciated...since I don't understand it at all. XD

And lastly, I just want to thank everyone for their responses to this fic; I've never had such enthusiastic feedback before *tears up* Especially to the anonymous few who I can't answer personally, thank you so much! You guys make me want to drop out of education and write ALL the time. (Which would be awesome...but not so good in the long-run.)

Anyways! I hope you enjoy this one, and take joy in the fact that I watched Single Ladies seven times in a row while writing it. :D

* * *

**Preggers**

_Step, 1, 2, 3, 4…wait, no. 1, 2, 3…or was it just 2? But then it would be the same as 4, right? _

So here's the scene: I'm counting steps in my head, trying to move my feet to the music right, but, shit, I'm slightly behind! I end up doing a strange sort of hop, trying to catch up with myself. You burst into laughter.

After the _Push It _incident, (or as I like to call it – the 'slightly gay moment that doesn't in any way make me gay, but may still unintentionally crop up every so often in the shower') I find myself dancing with you at every chance I get, and maybe it's my imagination, but I swear you do the same.

Ever since the Dakota Stanley incident, where the vertically challenged ass-hat said I had the coordination of a dead rhino, I've been trying to improve because, well, he did have a point. When I ask you for advice, you beam and suggest arriving at Glee Club half an hour early to practice. You laugh and clap as I trip over my feet, but steadily progress. I'm moving much more smoothly than before, but still crashing into other people every so often. (Alright, I'm lying, it happens a _lot._ But that might be _slightly_ to do with the fact that I don't want you to think I'm good enough to stop tutoring.)

'You know,' you say to me, as we collapse after a particularly difficult routine. 'You could be a really good dancer. With practice, of course.'

'Thanks. I am learning from the best, though.'

You chortle, 'True, true.' Then your eyes light up. 'Hey! Brit and Tina were going to come to my house and learn the _Single Ladies_ routine this afternoon. You know, Beyoncé?' I raise an eyebrow. 'Just…if you want, you could come and learn it too. It might help you out. Plus, the girls will be wearing skin-tight leotards, if that's a bonus?'

'Will you be wearing one?' It slips out of my mouth before I can even stop it. Your face flickers, and I feel like smashing my head against something. Could I be _any more_ _obvious?_

'Oh, no, I'll be wearing a unitard, don't worry.' You're quickly turning red, and I realized you must have misunderstood what I meant there. 'But you don't have to wear one!' You reassure me quickly, totally misreading the way my mouth twists with restrained arousal.

I smile awkwardly. You smile awkwardly. You tell me to meet you at the end of the day, and I can't help but grin goofily to myself as soon as your face is turned away.

But only because I'm making new friends. That's totally the reason.

Totally.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'Slap the butt, David! _Slap the –_ oh, come _on,_ David!

At this particular moment, I wish I was dead. To be honest, I think I might soon have that wish granted because, _fuck,_ Kurt, you're _killing me._

I didn't actually know what a unitard was, but I didn't think it would be…_that_. That clingy, tight…_clingy_ material that just…clings to you like something clingy. See what you're doing to me? Oh, god, and that neckline, what were you _thinking?_ Now I know you have freckles on your chest and that collarbone, oh, that collarbone. I need to bite it, to lick it and fuckedy fuck fuck _fuck_ how in the name of all things unholy am I supposed to dance when you're dressed like that?

'It's not that hard, I know you can do it!'

Oh, but it _is_ hard. It's fucking _hard _all right and thank fuck _I'm_ not wearing a unitard or you'd probably have me arrested. What is _wrong_ with me? You're a _guy,_ you're a guy, you're a guy and I shouldn't be thinking like this!

'I'm not even in the film, does it matter than much if I don't know it exactly?' I say, slightly hysterically and you respond with a roll of the eyes

'Jeez, David! You've come this far and you're giving up?' I suppress a noise at the use of the word _come_ and shake my head.

'It's too hard.' Pun totally unintended, and okay, so that may have been a little whiny, but we've been working on this for _two hours_ and Brittany and Tina have been in hysterics for most of it at my abysmal attempt at Beyoncé.

'Fine.' You sigh, and wave over to Brit, who has been staring at your wall for about ten minutes now, at some strange silver decorations stuck on it.

'We can film the video now, to give David a break.' You say, and I shrug, and settle myself on your white sofa. (When I say settle, I mean 'sit tentatively because this whole room is so freaking _white_ or, well, white-ish grey, and I feel like my very presence may mess it up'.)

And then, just as I manage to almost relax, the music starts.

Sure, I've been watching this routine for two hours. Sure, I've seen you demonstrate the moves to me. Sure, I've seen you dance before, with much raunchier music than this (hello again, _Push It!)_ but nothing, _nothing_ compares to this.

It's not even a particularly sexy dance, but your hands are on your hips and you're jerking them from side to side and oh dear god what I wouldn't give to be pressed against you right now…_stop,_ brain, _stop!_ But how am I supposed to stop when you're…oh god oh god oh god you're _slapping your butt_ I want to do it I want to slap it why do you have such a nice ass? And why oh why oh _why_ can't I stop staring at it?

It's at some point during this stream of semi-consciousness that I realize that little-Dave is very swiftly becoming even more, how shall I say it? _Not so_ _little._ I cross my legs and try to look innocent, even though you're far too absorbed in your dance routine to see me. Too absorbed, in fact, to notice your dad walking into the room, and we all jump as the music stops suddenly.

And, wow, I think I've found the most effective boner-killer ever.

'Dad!' Your voice is breathy from the dancing, but even that can't revive me since I'm terrified, and he's not even _my_ Dad. 'You're home early.'

'Deadliest Catch is on.' I wonder if your Dad has a shotgun. I hope he doesn't.

I know it's wrong to judge people from first impressions, but something about your Dad scares the crap out of me. Maybe it's the way he's standing, or the way he's dressed. Or maybe it's just the expression on his face. I can see it now: a homophobic father ashamed of his gay son. Oh, god, what if when we leave, he's going to beat you for this or something? It's clear from his expression that he's angry with you. He's wearing pretty much the opposite outfit to anything you own, a check shirt and baseball cap, and he looks like a regular Dad. But then, you're not exactly a regular son. I don't know anything about him, but what if he hurts you for being who you are? I mean, does he even know?

'What are you wearing?' He asks you, and the tension is so thick you'd need a chainsaw to cut through it.

'It's a unitard. Guys wear them to, uh, work out nowadays.' You answer too quickly, defensively. Not to mention you talk about guys as if we're a different species from you or something. 'They wick sweat from the body.' I jolt, startled, as he pulls on the unitard's material and lets it snap back into place with a nod.

'F-f-football!' Tina stutters, sounding even more nervous than usual. You glance at her.

'Yeah, all the guys in football wear them.' With a tilt of the shoulders, you declare 'They're jock-chic.' And suddenly, I really wish you were right. At least then I could have some tentative grasp of fashion.

'Totally!' Brit chirps, and for some reason, I have a sinking feeling in my stomach, as if I know that something is about to go very, very wrong. 'Kurt's in the football team now.' There you go. 'He's the kicker, that's the smallest guy on the field, right?'

Never mind the fact that you look like a deer in headlights, you seem to have lost the ability to talk, so I suddenly stand up, which makes your Dad look over at me with a glare. He's probably wondering why I waited until now to say anything.

'Yeah, he joined this week.' I find myself saying. 'Coach thought he'd give him a shot.' Later, I would explain to Brittany that, while the kicker may be the smallest guy on the field, our kicker, Marcus Langenthal, is still about a foot taller than you. For now, however, I'm going to put my limited brainpower to use and try and get you out of his horrendously awkward situation. Let's just hope Mr. Hummel doesn't want tickets to your "game".

'Y-yeah!' You speak up, finally, and I'm pretty damn sure your dad must know you're lying because you're fiddling with your tie and your eyes are darting around. I'm no expert in reading body language, but even I can figure that out. 'Brit and Tina were just helping me with some conditioning work.'

'And him?' Your dad nods his head at me, and I feel like it's that moment when a teacher asks you a question after you've slept through the whole lesson.

'I'm…uh, just here to properly explain the rules and everything?' I try not to sound questioning, but I can't help it. 'Kurt…Kurt doesn't really know how the game works, so I thought I'd help him with…with technique and…and stuff.'

'Mmmn." He looks back at you, and there's something there, something in his eyes that makes me think he knows more than he lets on. It's scary and I seriously wander about your relationship. 'You know, I played back in JC, before I busted up my knee popping wheelies on my dirt bike.'

'Awesome.' I say, and then glance at you. 'Like father, like son.' Then I feel like burying my face in the ground because seriously, _what did I just say? Oh my god I'm such an idiot. _

'So one of you two his girlfriend?' He says, and I realize he's completely ignored what I just said, which I think is a good thing. However, the spotlight's on you again and you look just as terrified as before, before a comical ass-slap as you grab Tina and grin awkwardly.

'But we're not ready to be exclusive just yet.' You say, and he makes a noise that sounds a bit like derision, but I don't know. Maybe he was joking? He can't possibly think you're straight, right? No offence, but you're kind of _obvious._

And then your dad's disappearing up the stairs, and you turn to me, face now devoid of any color at all, and – in a voice which is both desperate, and yet somehow still commanding in the way only you can really pull off – you utter one word:

'Help!'

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

_

* * *

_

For the millionth time this morning, I curse myself for being such a pussy.

After all, if I was a real man, then I wouldn't have agreed to help you, right? But _nooo,_ I had to go all _nice guy_ and now they're going to _kill _me.

'Guys, I need a favour.'

And by 'they', I mean the whole football team, who have just turned to look at me. I suddenly feel like I'm in one of those nightmares where you realize you're not wearing clothes.

'It's Kurt. He wants to join the football team.'

For a moment, it's silent. Then the room explodes into laughter. Finn's shaking his head, grinning, and Puck slaps me on the back.

'Good one, man!' He laughs, and I glare at him.

'I'm serious, guys. I mean, I know I don't need your permission for him to try out, but if you could _not_ kick his ass when he gets here-'

'And why shouldn't we?' Azimio cuts me off. 'There's no way that skinny mofo is joining this team.' Funnily enough, this is the most he's said to me in weeks. I haven't even bothered trying to talk to him, since I'm sure he'd probably just make gay jokes.

'And why is Hummel even interested in the football team anyway?' Puck asks. 'The homo should just stick to his showtunes.' Then again, Puck's always been better at the gay jokes, anyway.

'Maybe,' I growl, clenching my fists. 'Sometimes people like to expand their interests. And maybe some of you guys need to do the same! Seriously, I think some of _you_ could benefit from a few showtunes.'

And they're laughing again. So perhaps that wasn't the best idea, but Mr. Schue did drop a hint about me asking some of the team to join us, so…why not? They're going to kick my ass now anyway. This could be a two birds, one stone kind of thing. Or, more likely, two dead Gleeks and one brick.

'Look, guys, we need recruits. We only have six people.'

'Yeah,' Puckerman interjects, 'because Glee club _sucks!'_

I have an overwhelming desire to answer with 'your mom sucks!' but something tells me that won't help the situation.

'It doesn't _suck_, guys! You don't even know what we do in there!'

'Don't you just sing big gay showtunes and suck each other's dicks?'

'Oh, screw you, Puckerman!' I use all my self-control to hold back a punch. 'It's not that bad, okay? We're not just a bunch of losers dancing around singing showtunes!'

'What, Karofsky?' Puck jeers at me, 'You trying to tell us that Glee club is cool?'

I laugh. 'Glee club is most definitely _not cool_.' I say, and everyone stares at me. 'I mean, what the hell is everyone's obsession with being _cool_ anyway? I'm not gonna stand here and try to convince you Glee is going to improve your reputation or make you popular, 'cause everyone knows we get slushied every day and people think we're losers. But what I can tell you is that it's _fun!_ We have a great time every practice and it's awesome to be able to let go and know that no one _cares._ I can guarantee that if you like singing, you'll have a great time.' I clear my throat. 'That's it. All I'm asking is you give it a try. You don't have to sign up, just come along this Thursday and have a go.'

I sit down and grab my bag, glancing around at my teammates. They've stopped laughing, which I guess is a good thing, and they haven't beaten me up, which is also good, not to mention surprising.

And then I see him. Number 5 – _Hudson –_ is looking almost contemplative, which is a mean feat for him. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed and his eyes keep darting back and forth as if he can't make up his mind where to look. He looks kind of adorable, I think, and then shake my head. No, brain, no. Then I think, no, he's nowhere near as adorable as you. Wait, _no._ _Bad_ brain.

I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I find Hudson attractive. I'm not _attracted_ to him, per se, I just find him attractive. As in, the guy's hot (and well hung, as my libido has noticed over the year) but if I _were_ gay – which I'm not – he wouldn't be my type.

I'd be much more interested in someone smaller and skinnier. Someone with long, lithe limbs and big, innocent eyes.

Someone maybe not entirely unlike you.

Not that it matters, because the chance that I'm gay is, like, minute. Practically non-existent. At least, very little.

Okay, maybe more than very little. I look up and realize everyone's left. Again.

Well, everyone except Hudson, who's standing in front of me, looking confused. I stare up at him and raise an eyebrow. 'What's up, Hudson?' I say with a smile, and he smiles back, a crooked grin that, yes, does rather light up his otherwise blank face. Not that I'm looking.

'I was just wondering…Rachel Berry's in glee club, right?' I nod, and he continues, 'Not that, you know, I'm interested in her…just…I saw her in that assembly thing…' He trails off and I can't help but grin as I realize how I probably _can_ kill two birds with one stone here. Pairing up Rachel and Finn would not only get her out of my hair, but hopefully get Finn's crotch out of my head. This multi-tasking thing isn't so hard after all.

'You know, Rachel loves guys that sing.' I say, casually, shrugging my shoulders and raising my eyebrows innocently. 'She gets totally hot for me when I do a solo. But she's just not my type, you know? I like…' And suddenly I forget what I'm saying 'Uh…taller girls.'

He flashes me a look that I recognize as something negative, before I realize I just insulted the girl he may be digging.

'What, you like girls taller than you?' It's kind of mocking, but playful. I laugh and shrug.

'Not taller than me!' I say, trying not to be defensive. 'Just, taller. And, don't get me wrong, brunettes are totally my thing but I just love a girl with short hair.'

He's laughing now, and I can literally sense a dude-ship forming. 'You got odd tastes, man.'

'Maybe,' I reply, and then realize what I'd been getting at all along, 'So how about Thursday? You game?'

He grins that crooked grin again, 'Sure.' He sounds a little hesitant, but he's still smiling, so I'm hopeful.

Okay, so they haven't agreed not to kill you, so I guess I'll have to enlist The Fury to protect you, but at least I got a yes on the new recruit front.

A cautious yes, but a yes all the same.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

_

* * *

_

'Um, okay, yeah. Higher leg, wait, not that high! Jeez, is that even normal? Don't aim it, _don't aim_ _it!'_

'Then where do I kick it?'

'Just kick it! You know, _forwards_.'

How exactly did it come to this? Here I am, fully kitted out in my football outfit, teaching some skinny choirboy how to kick.

Oh, and did I mention what you're wearing? It's a far call from a unitard, but somehow even more dangerous as far as my hormones go. Yup, there you stand in one of the spare football outfits looking vaguely like a twink from a bad gay porn movie. Not that I watch gay porn, really.

'I don't get it, how am I supposed to move if I'm not relaxed?' You interrupt my thoughts, huffing and blowing out your cheeks.

'I don't know! Get relaxed!' I say, despairingly, 'Do you want me to relax you?' I pause, and then clear my throat. 'That came out wrong.'

You let out a strange noise and smirk at me. 'I need to dance.' You say, and a laugh escapes me before I can help it. You _cannot_ be serious.

'You want to_ dance?_ In front of the football team? No offense, Kurt, but they might just kill you.'

You huff, pulling out your iPod and plugging into the jack. 'My body is like a rum chocolate soufflé. If I don't warm it up right, it doesn't _rise._'

About a million innuendoes come to mind, (Oh, _haha_, 'come.' Stop giggling, perv.) and I desperately try to ignore them all as my brain shuts down entirely. 'I'll remember that.' I say, then let out a splutter, realizing how that must sound. 'Oh, god, I'm sorry, I didn't mean–'

'It's fine.' You cut me off, not looking me in the eyes. I notice your cheeks are reddening, and I'm pretty sure mine are too. 'I'm going to warm up, okay?'

Well, I'm certainly warm enough, and judging by your pink complexion, you are too, but I just shrug and move out of your way as you start that fucking routine again.

_All the single ladies, alllll the single ladies! _

I swear to Beyoncé, this routine gets raunchier ever time you perform it. And now, with you looking all adorable like that…

Oh, Kurt, you're going to be the death of me.

About half an hour, lots of Beyoncé and some more freakishly high kicks later, we're beat. Well, _I'm_ beat, and you weren't kidding about the warming up – it's like someone put speed in your nonfat mocha, you're that energetic. But you've obviously clocked on that I'm dying slowly here, and suggest we get lunch at the cafeteria.

Ah, the cafeteria, the land of tots and food fights. I grab a tray and throw whatever food I can reach on while you roll your eyes with a slight smile and pick up a salad. When we sit down, we choose an empty table because, let's face it, I can't see any other glee kids here and who else would want to sit with us?

So here we are, alone. Me wolfing down food and you picking at a salad. Awkward silence.

'So what do you think about Quinn?' You ask, absentmindedly waving a skewered piece of lettuce on your fork.

For a second there, I wonder if you've been talking to Rachel, and my face quickly turns white, but then you roll your eyes at me as if to say 'have you been living under a rock?' and you continue.

'You haven't heard? Apparently Puck said it really loudly in the corridor. I mean, it could just be a rumor, but they're saying Quinn's _in the pudding club.'_ You whisper, and I briefly wonder what's in that salad.

'What the heck are you on about, Kurt?' I ask, taking a big gulp of coke.

'Quinn! She's _got one in the oven.'_ I think I'm supposed to know what that means…but why the fuck are you talking about food and Quinn together?

'She's _what_?'

'You know!' You sigh angrily, 'Renting out the guest room? Suing Trojan?'

Okay, now I _know_ there's something in that salad.

'Seriously, Kurt, what the fuck?' I say, a little too loudly, but no one's listening to us anyway.

'She's…' and here you lower your voice, '_preggers.'_

'Are you for real?' I ask, but even as I say it, the conversation I overheard earlier suddenly makes sense.

Now, I don't make a habit of eavesdropping, I just happened to be in the wrong place or whatever, but earlier in the locker room I heard Puck asking Finn if they ever _did it._ 'Course, I thought it was a bit weird, but Puck's a nosy bastard when it comes to sex, but anyway. Finn said no, which was also weird now that I think about it because if they didn't have _sex…_

Then Finn's not the father. Right.

The really funny part is that about a month ago, a certain Mohawk-bearing teenager accidently let slip that he _had_ nailed Quinn Fabray during some locker-room banter.

What a _coincidence_.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

This has officially become the strangest week of my life.

So it starts with the practice. 'Put your helmet on.' I say, as we stand a bit away from the group of football players.

'It'll mess up my hair.' I laugh, but you're dead serious, of course you are, you and your organic hair products and millions of cans of hairspray.

'Believe me, it'll do a lot less damage than if your head hits the ground. Plus, _mud.'_ And that seems to be the magic word because you're fiddling with the helmet and trying to put it on, but failing miserably.

'Stupid straps.' I hear you mutter. I roll my eyes and lean over to do up the helmet.

'There.' I say, quietly, and I go to pull back but I'm stuck. In your helmet. I curse inwardly, because it's altogether way too apparent how close we are and I can almost _taste_ your breath even through the two helmets. You're breathing almost as hard as I am. I think my heart may be close to exploding, I can see your eyes fixed on my face which is suddenly a lot hotter. Now I've stopped breathing altogether, but I don't think that's why I'm feeling so dizzy all of a sudden.

Untangled, I stand back and try to ignore what just happened. 'Heh. Red's your color.' I stutter out, and I think you smile at me nervously, before I clear my throat and drag you towards Coach Tanaka and the team.

I was pretty damn convinced that they were going to kill you, and that I would have to sweep down and save you, but there's apparently no need. Not to say that would have been cool (though totally gay) but I think not getting my ass kicked is a kinder alternative.

The reason behind said lack of ass-kicking is because, now here's the kicker (get it? Kicker? 'Cause, you know, you're the…oh, never mind.) : You're good.

Like, _really_ good. Good enough that we're all staring like gormless idiots and you're smiling to yourself because you know you've done well.

Suddenly, the team seems to accept you. Azimio actually hasn't commented once, heck, he actually smiled at you when we first turned up, but I'm pretty sure it was a 'I'm going to break your legs' kind of smile. But now, he's grinning at you with the rest of the team and talking about how all that dancing must have built up some pretty good muscles.

He looks at me, and says something about me having an eye for hidden talent. I ignore him.

And then shit gets weird. Weirder, even.

In fact, I don't know what's the strangest thing about this week; the fact that the whole football teams learns _Single Ladies_ or the fact that it actually helps us _win the game._

That brings us to the crux of my wacky week: the game. Who'd have thought that a bunch of football players would start (what was that phrase you used? Oh, yeah) 'busting a move on the field'? Not me, that's for sure, and I was even there as we practiced! I mean, I just didn't think the team would actually do it! And it didn't even take that much convincing, just a word or two about how much we suck and that seriously, we have no pride left anyway because we suck _that bad. _But somewhere in there, I say 'I've had it with being a Lima Loser,' and something about the way Puckerman reacts makes me think either I'm just great at pep-talks or there's more to this than I realize.

And then before I know it, he's yelling at some random player and turning to me and saying 'why not?' and it's like he's another guy or something. Hudson's got this dopey grin plastered on his face and Azimio yells 'hell yeah!' even though I _know_ he's just following Finn and Puck.

We dance.

You kick.

We win.

And it's fucking _awesome. _

I can't even explain my feelings at the moment when you ran forward to kick. I felt sick, happy, sad, shit-scared and like jumping with ecstasy all at the same time. And I have the emotional range of a freaking teaspoon or whatever that Hermione Granger chick said, so that's pretty impressive.

But nothing compares to the feelings I get when we win, _you _win the game for us. I look at you, your face stretched into an adorable grin, jumping up and down, and hold out my arms. You practically leap into them, and it's all I can do not to grab your legs and swing you around. Instead I just pull you close and let you dig your fingers into my shoulders, settling your head into my chest. I wonder if you can feel how fast my heart is beating, or whether you'll think it's just adrenaline from the game.

You mumble something into my chest and I can't hear you, but suddenly you're looking up at me, our bodies still pressed together, and _whoa,_ okay, you're close. For a moment, I wonder if I should…no, no, why would I even think of it? But even as I tell myself not to, I'm leaning down, leaning closer…

_Fuck, no!_ I jolt backwards and your eyes widen, staring at me like I've lost my mind. But you don't have time to dwell on it, because as soon as I let you go, you're being scooped up by the rest of the team and carried away, the sound of cheers blasting around us.

Azimio grabs me and tries to pull me into a bro-hug, but I shove him away and follow after you. As they set you down, you look at me, and for a second your expression dampens. 'Can I talk to you?'

'Meet me in the locker room after the team's cleared out.' You nod, and for a second, I think you're blushing, but I'm sure it's just the exercise.

Even though I kind of wish it was me that caused it.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

'Hey.' Okay, awkward opening line over. I try and smile at you, but it comes across as more of a grimace since I'm so nervous. We're alone, and all I can think of is that 80s song by Tiffany, which is now stuck in my head.

You look terrified, as if I'm going to beat you to death with my sports bag. You're also avoiding my eyes, looking pretty much everywhere but me.

'Um, Mercedes said she went to talk to you, after I…uh, last week. You know?' I nod, dumbly, wondering where this is going. 'And she told you what I said about being in love with Rachel.' Another nod. I seem to have lost the ability to form words. 'Well, I thought you should know, it's not true. I actually despise Rachel, most of the time. But that's mostly because she's too much like me when it comes to being a drama queen.' Your lips curl slightly into a smile, then drop.

'What I mean to say is…um. We're friends now, right? And…you should know something about me. Something I don't…I haven't told anyone.' Oh, god, your eyes are tearing up. You probably think I'm going to hate you. _Am _I going to hate you? Fuck, like I could ever hate you. 'I…understand if you don't want to be friends any more…'

'Kurt, what are you trying to say?' I ask, as if I don't already know. I have to let you say it. And to my face, I have to hear you say it to me. So, you say it:

'I'm gay.'

And then something happens. It's like a subconscious reaction, my mouth starts moving and I do something, nearly say something that I'm not even sure I understand, but hold it back, instead coughing politely.

'Cool.' I choke out. Seriously, that's the best I can come up with and you're looking at me like I'm a mad man. 'I mean, not _cool,_ I mean, I'm cool with that. You've gotta be what you've gotta be, right? Not saying I agree with it or nothing…'cause it's a little weird and all.' What the fuck am I even _saying?_ 'But if I had a problem with you being gay, I would have avoided you the moment I realized.' I let a small smile grace my lips, 'Which, by the way, was about ten seconds after meeting you.'

'Really.' Your eyes are wide.

'Really. Kurt, I don't know if you're aware of it, but you're pretty, uh…_camp._ And, I mean – fuck, I didn't mean, don't start crying!' I flail as I notice the tears start to run down your face.

'I- I'm not crying.' You sniffle, wiping away the tears and trying to keep a straight face. It's not working.

'Dude, I can see you crying. Seriously, stop! What did I say? Fuck, _fuck!'_ Without any clue of what I'm doing, I grab you by the shoulders and stare at you square in the face. But, wait, you're smiling?

'You didn't do anything! That...that's the point! I thought…I thought you'd hit me or tell me never to speak to you again but you didn't.' You're actually smiling, crying and smiling at the same time. 'Thank you. Thank you for helping me with the team and for not being…for not hating me. You're really cool.'

_Oh._

'So those are happy tears?'

'I'm not crying.'

'So those are happy…non-tears?'

You nod. I understand how hard this must be for you because I'm probably shattering your pride, but I pull you into a tight hug and let you not-cry into my shoulder for a couple of minutes.

'Feeling better?'

You sniff and nod, and just like that you're back to HBIC Kurt. You wipe away the tears and, though your face is blotchy and red, you're wearing your normal 'I'm-Kurt-Hummel-and-the-world-can't-touch-me' expression. You start to walk away, and I watch you, trying to pretend I'm not staring at your ass. Shit no; _serious_ talk is serious, Dave! Stop being inappropriate!

'And Kurt?' I call after you, and you glance back at me. 'You should tell your dad. He deserves to know.' You nod again, and start to leave, before stopping.

'Dave…' You stop, and I raise an eyebrow. 'Before. When I said…that I'm gay. You were going to say something, and you stopped. What…wait, never mind.' You shake your head as you probably realize that it's not your place to ask.

I let you go and don't answer the unspoken question because…well, because I've just realized the answer. And it terrifies me to my very core.

Because when you said 'I'm gay,' I very nearly replied with 'me too.'

And I'm starting to wonder if maybe it's not entirely untrue.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	5. The Rhodes Not Taken

**Rating:** T, but maybe M for swearing?

**Warnings: **Nothing too raunchy unfortunately. Sad times. **  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, the UK would get Glee first *cackles madly*

**Notes: **Why oh why are these chapters getting so long? This is the most exhausting fic I've ever written! XD I hope you're all enjoying it, I'm having so much fun messing with Glee, though it does mean having to watch the episodes three million times! Also, see if you can guess which musical I was listening to while writing this! XD

Oh yeah, and if anyone's interested, I'll also probably be posting more random doodles from this fic on deviantart (link in profile) since I'm on a bit of an art fix right now, even though I don't really draw, haha :D

Here we go!

* * *

**The Rhodes Not Taken**

Sometimes in life, awesome things happen.

Like last week: I was half-expecting Hudson to flake out, even after winning the game and all. But the guy really pulls through, and not only does he turn up, he brings _Puckerman_ with him. I have no idea how the fuck he managed to get him in here, but I'm not going to complain.

This, along with the sneaky post-game recruitment I did of Mike Chang, who I noticed learned the _Single Ladies_ routine faster than anyone in there, and Matt Rutherford, who just sort of followed him, means we officially have enough people to compete at Sectionals. Woop, woop!

I mean, I'm not going to kid myself that this is going to change shit. It's awesome that we have some of the 'cool kids,' but as I myself lost that title shortly after joining Glee, I have little hope that everything will be all rainbows and sparkles. Still, it can't hurt to have five of us jocks in the club, right?

But, wait, it's not possible for life to be that awesome, right? Of course it's not.

So, today, when Rachel comes to me looking like she's about to cry, I know that something's about to go very, very wrong.

'Dave, I need your help.' She says, way too seriously. I'm panicking already and I have this feeling, like you get when you're standing on the top of somewhere really high and…um, vertigo?

'It's Finn. We…we went on a date last night.' Okay, that wasn't what I was expecting. Huh.

Wait, _what?_

'You went on a date with _Finn?'_

'Yes…I mean, we've been meeting up all week, after I offered to give him vocal training. And the date was wonderful and romantic and he took me bowling! And then we _kissed, _Dave! It was perfect!' She sighs, 'But I just don't know how I'm going to break him up with Quinn!'

I never really know whether to like Rachel or despise her. Sometimes she's lovely, and I can't deny that she's got reasons to be arrogant, but _really,_ she's talking about stealing a guy from his _pregnant_ girlfriend! Even if my suspicions are correct and Finn's _not _the father, Rachel is still being unspeakably awful.

'Rachel, you have to stop this.' I say, going into serious mode. 'You can't make a guy cheat on his girlfriend, his _pregnant_ girlfriend!'

Then the penny drops, for _both_ of us.

Rachel's face drops so quickly that it suddenly and painfully occurs to me that she _didn't know._

…oops.

'Quinn is _pregnant?'_ I sort of babble and wave my hands in response, temporarily forgetting how to speak.

And then she's _gone_ and holy shit how can someone with such short legs run so fast? I jog after her into the corridor, just as she reaches Hudson.

'_Finn!'_

The resounding noise of hand-on-face fills the air and I wince, even though Hudson just seems to have adopted a look of utter bewilderment.

'You're a liar! Why didn't you tell me Quinn was pregnant?' Rachel hisses at him, and I think she may slap him again.

'Who told you?' Wrong response, Finn.

'Dave did!' Oh, and now he's looking at me like I just broke his COD disk and I am so going to get the blame for this, aren't I?

'Rachel, I really don't think you should-' I try to reason, but she cuts me off.

'I can't believe I thought you _actually _had feelings for me!' Ignoring me entirely, she continues yelling at Finn.

'B-but I _do!_' Finn replies, stuttering, and I give myself a mental high-five for figuring it out before realizing I need to focus.

'And you still _lied_ to me?' She screeches. Now is the time to properly intervene, I realize, and put a hand on her shoulder.

'_Rachel!' _I shout. 'Look, while I appreciate you must be pretty mad at Finn right now, he's already got enough on his plate with Quinn and all the baby-daddy drama, so if you could just-'

'I'm quitting Glee Club.' Well, that shuts me up. I open and close my mouth for a second and so does Finn, so Rachel just looks pointedly at him and continues. 'Mr. Ryerson offered me the lead in the school play…and I'm going to take it. So I hope you have fun playing house with Quinn while you languish in your little ensemble, but my dreams are bigger than that. And they're bigger than you.'

And she strides off, leaving me face to face with Finn, who still looks bewildered.

'Well, shit.' I say, as Finn watches her leave. 'What do we do now?'

'Why don't you just back off?' His expression turns sour, and now _he's_ storming off.

I'm left wondering which of the many things I've done wrong he's mad at me for.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

'I need to talk to you, man.' Azimio says as soon as I walk into the locker room for practice later that day. I'm already pissed because the hockey team ganged up on my on my way here just to tell me that I'm a fag and that if I don't quite Glee club, they're going to kill me next practice.

It's not the first time they've said it, but the way they did it this time just seems more…real. Like, maybe one of them would actually try something. Maybe I should quit, I mean, at least I still have football, unless Azimio and Strando (who seems to have filled Puck's void as resident wise-cracker,) pull something. Puckerman's less of an issue now, but only because he's suffering a little from Glee too. I still don't get why he joined in the first place, after his constant debasing of the club, but he's shut up pretty fast.

'Leave me alone, Az. I don't need this right now.' I say, my voice low. I walk over to my locker and open it, not looking at him.

'You don't need _what?_ I just want to talk to you.' He stands a few paces behind me and I don't look back at him, just stare into my locker.

'Well, maybe I don't want to talk to you.'

'Dude, what's your problem?' He demands, shoving me in the shoulder. I whirl around so we're face to face, my eyebrows already furrowed into a frown.

'What's _my_ problem? You've been acting like a total dick ever since I joined Glee Club!' I shout, a little louder than intended.

'You've been _ignoring_ me ever since you joined that fucking club!' He counters, and I laugh spitefully.

'_I've_ been ignoring _you?'_ I'm so close I'm practically head butting him.

'Seriously, man, if you keep repeating everything I say, I'm going to hit you.'

'Oh, fuck you, Az!' I yell, but draw back anyway. 'If you have a problem with what I'm-'

'Who the hell said I had a problem?' He waves his hands as if there's something I'm not _getting_ and it's driving me insane with anger.

'You made it pretty damn clear that you think Glee Club is for fags and losers!' I spit, and my hand motions to myself as if to say…well.

'And I don't care if you're either of those things, you're still my friend!'

Perhaps I should be touched by this. As far as I can gather, my best friend is telling me that he's willing to accept me for whoever I am, right? How sweet.

But, wait. If he's saying that, it means that he thinks there's something about me that _requires_ accepting.

'What the _fuck_ are you insin…in…' what the fuck is that fucking word anyway? '_saying?'_

'I'm just trying to let you know that I'm here for you, man! I don't care if…if you want to sing showtunes and be best buddies with Hummel, okay? Just…let me in, Dave! If there's something bothering you, you can _tell_ me!' Again with the assumption, what the hell does he think he knows anyway?

'What do you think is bothering me?' I try to calm down. I breath very slowly and count to ten in my head. It works, a little.

'God, Karofsky, please don't make me go all Avenue Q on you.' I don't know what the reference means but I do know that's a musical of some sort and Azimio _hates _musicals so- 'My sister made me watch it with her, okay?'

'I still have no idea what you're talking about.'

'Look, I've seen the way you are with him, okay? I've known your for, like, your whole life and the only other person I've seen you make that expression at is Freddy Macey, remember, the blond kid we used to swirly all the time.'

Yeah, I remember him. He was fucking gorgeous, with curly blond hair and tanned skin and bright green eyes. He was absolutely perfect. I hated his fucking guts. But what did that have to do with this?

'Your point being?'

'I went along with your totally baseless hatred of the guy because I didn't want to upset you, but…I mean, come _on,_ you _must _know what I'm talking about!'

No, Azimio. No, I don't. 'The fuck?'

'Ever heard of pulling pigtails?'

Yeah, I've heard of it: they say that little boys pull the hair of girls they like. But I don't see how that relates to me unless he's suggesting that I _like…_

_Oh._

On this note, I take a deep breath and react calmly.

Fine, fine, I'm lying. I grab Azimio by the collar, practically howling at him and slam him against a locker, hitting him square in the face.

But don't tell Figgins.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

_

* * *

_

When I get home, I make sure to walk very quietly. I practically tiptoe to the doorstep and slip open the door, then very slowly click it back into place, gently flicking off my trainers. I head for the stairs, my socks preventing any squeaking on the tiled floor and, _yes,_ nearly there, nearly to my room –

'David!' Oh, fuck.

'I just received a phone call from your school, David.' I think I'm going to throw up.

'They tell me you got into a fight today.'

'I can explain.' I say, way too quickly. He raises his eyebrows in that way he always does.

'Really?' He clearly doesn't believe me, and I realize I'm not going to be able to lie my way out of this.

'Well…no, not really. Azimio and I were just…'

'You and Azimio got into a fight?'

'Well, it was me and him against one another, yeah.'

My father sighs and presses his hands to his temples. 'David, I thought you were over this stage. Don't tell me we're going to have to put in your in anger management again.'

And then he proceeds to grill me for the better part of an hour. I zone out because I've heard it all before, back when I was being rebellious. I mean, it's not like I don't get the grades, no, I've always been the model son, but these incidents… they're what got me sent to anger management in the first place.

It's not like I mean to be violent. I don't want to be the guy who throws a punch at every little thing, it's just…I just can't help it. As soon as someone pisses me off it's like I can't stop myself from reacting with my fists.

The counselor said that the reason I lash out is because I have internal issues or something. I'm angry at myself, so I attack others. She said that if I calm down and learn to love myself, I'll be fine.

But how am I supposed to love myself when I hate myself so much? They say every teenager goes through a stage of self-loathing, but mine has lasted pretty much my whole life. When I told her this, she said that I needed to understand that other people loved me, that I was worthy of love.

I told her I thought she was full of shit, and I still stand by that.

Who the hell would want to love me, anyway?

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

_

* * *

_

I manage to get the whole day without hitting anyone, which I think is pretty impressive considering my mood today. We don't have Glee today, but I do have football, which is great because I can vent my frustrations and let off a little steam.

Speaking of _steam…_

I know something bad is happening as soon as April Rhodes, our brand new (or rather, kind of old) member of Glee Club comes barging into the showers with a yell of, 'Hello, boys!'

What I didn't foresee is that she would waltz right into _my_ shower, grinning widely and asking if I want a little _somethin' somethin'_. Now I know what _somethin'_ is and I'm not sure I really want it, especially not twice over.

'Uhh…I…' I just sort of splutter at her while she starts to remove her dress and _oh dear God, _she's not wearing underwear today, and my eyes are drifting somewhere that I know I should want to look, but I _don't_ want to see. 'I…can't.' My back is now firm against the shower wall, as far as I can get from the petite, semi-naked blonde.

'Why not?' She asks, and she's stopped stripping, thank god, but is now looking at me very oddly. I'm very aware of my nudity, and I need an excuse, _fast._

'I'm celibate.' I reply, before I even think properly.

_Fuck,_ I did it again. Seriously, why does my brain seem to think that's a good excuse? Especially with how badly it went last time.

April Rhodes is about as deterred as Rachel was, but at least Rachel had the decency to respect my fake celibacy, unlike April, who reaches for my dick with a big grin and says, 'I can fix that.'

'Ahhh, no!' My voice comes out as far too much of a squeak, and loud enough that Puckerman, who I didn't even notice leering at April from another cubicle, barks out a laugh and leans casually against the tiles.

'What's up, Karofsky? Or rather…' he snickers, eyes flicking downwards, '_not_ up?'

The only reason I don't hit him is because I remember my dad's warning not to get into any more fights.

'Shut the fuck up, Puckerman!' I yell instead, even though I know it won't help in the slightest.

'Well if you're not _man_ enough to handle her, I'll be happy to take her off your hands.'

April, who has been watching this conversation like it's prime-time TV, grins widely at Puck and sends him a wink, which is quickly returned.

'Come over here and the Fury will prove how _man_ I am!' I growl, then realize how that probably sounds and groan to myself.

'Dude, the _Fury,_ really? Mine's Puckasaurus.' He gives a smarmy grin that I desperately want to punch off him, but I roll my eyes instead.

'I was talking about my _fist,_ Puck. And you can have her, I'm not interested.'

'I can see that. The question is why?' His hands circle April's curved hips and he raises an eyebrow. 'Seems like you'd need a pretty good reason…wait, dude, you're not –'

'I have a girlfriend.' I blurt out, cutting him off. See, now, _that's _a better excuse! For a moment, I think I've gotten away with it and he won't ask any more questions, but there it is, the kicker:

'Who?'

And how am I supposed to answer that? If I say something like 'you won't know her' or 'she lives in Canada' it will be completely obvious I'm making her up

So I say 'Rachel Berry.'

Which, I realize almost immediately after, was a very stupid thing to do.

I practically run out of the shower after that, leaving April with Puck and Matt, who had walked in just after I announced my fake girlfriend.

I am so utterly screwed, and not in a good way.

Okay, Rachel's probably gone home by now. Better text instead. Or…spontaneous visit? This might be easier in person.

I'm so glad she invited me over for a movie last week, because at least I know where she lives now, even if I did have to sit through 'A Chorus Line,' and listen to a half-hour monologue about the Life Aspirations Of Rachel Berry.

Twenty minutes and two skipped red-lights later (I panicked, okay?) I arrive at Rachel's house, park, practically run to her door, ring the doorbell and fidget.

'Dave?' Thankfully she answers, because I didn't meet her parents last time and, hello, awkward?

'Hi, Rachel. I… I need to talk to you.'

'Um. Sure? Come on in.' I enter la casa de Berry and try not to freak out at the insane amount of Rachel worship. Her parents must be a little odd, I think.

'You remember your plan about Finn?' I ask, while she fixes me a drink. I sit in her kitchen and try not to look awkward.

She cocks her head to the side and surveys me. 'Where we pretend to date? Of course.'

'I think we should do it.' I blurt out. Rachel looks at me like I'm mad.

'But Dave, Quinn is pregnant. You said yourself –'

I cut her off, 'I don't mean that we should break them up…just…okay.' Taking a deep breath, I recognize that I'm going to have to tell her the truth or this is never going to work. 'I might have accidently lied to Puck and told him we're dating.'

The look on her face is priceless, somewhere between shock and amusement.

'Why?'

My hand seems to automatically reach out to scratch the back of my head, and I'm sure I'm flicking my tongue out nervously. 'I…can't really say. I mean…I don't really know. It's…complicated.'

'Is this one of those times where I shouldn't inquire any further to avoid potential awkwardness?' I nod, with an appreciative and hopeful smile. 'Fine. How long do you and I have to pretend to date?'

'I dunno. Long enough to make it seem realistic, then we can break up, I guess. You can cry and shit and dump me if you want. It'll be dramatic, I mean, you like dramatic, right?'

'It will be an excellent opportunity to practice my acting skills.' She muses, and I can't help but laugh gently, then pull her into a quick hug.

'Thanks, Rachel. You're awesome.'

'I know. Don't be surprised if you fall for me while we pretend to date, though. As I said, I'm still waiting for the crescendo.'

At least I know what a crescendo is now. Yeah, I looked it up. Hey, we have the Internet for a reason.

I'll let her dream for a little bit longer about musical duets and epic love stories. After all, I don't have the heart to tell her that this particular piece of music is less Mozart and more 'nails on chalkboard.'

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

The next morning, I bump into you in the hallway.

No, literally, _bump into_, almost sending you flying. You stumble and sway and I catch you by the elbow. 'Shit! Are you okay?' I ask, and your eyes are fixed on the floor. 'Kurt?'

'M'fine.' You say, eyes still down. I notice that you look…_weird_ today. Your clothes are all crumpled, your tie is tied wrong and your normally immaculate hair is unbrushed, flopped over your face in quite an adorable, but totally un-Kurtish manner.

'Kurt.' I say, realization dawning. 'Are you _drunk?'_

You look up, and I see that your eyes are red and glazed and you have a sort of dopey smile on your face. Fuck. You're _drunk._ In _school._ I very quickly drag you into the nearest empty classroom and pray that it's not being used this period.

'Drunk? Maybe. I…I had some…some drink. From a flask.' You burst into laughter and I stare with wide eyes, confused as hell. 'Flask! That's a funny word. _Flaaask.'_

Oh my God.

'You…you should have some too. It's nice and warming and now I feel like I'm full of confi…confi…dence!'

'Yeah, that's alcohol for you.'

'You need to be more confident. Because you look scared a lot. You should be more confident because you're amazing, you know? Amazing!' You giggle lightly and sway slightly.

'Uh, thanks Kurt.'

'Yer amazing! And sweet and funny and…I…' Your face drops and your skin seems to turn almost bluey-grey. 'I…don't feel…good…'

'Ku-' I start to say, as you throw up on my shoes.

Oh, just fucking _great. _

_

* * *

_~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

Miss Pillsbury probably wasn't the best person to go to, in retrospect, but she is nice enough to drive us to the hospital. Well, she meant to take only you but you wouldn't let go of my arm.

She's also useful because she carries enough cleaning products that I managed not to reek too much of sick, plus a brand new toothbrush and mouthwash for you.

I would have thought that ralphing would have made you less drunk, but somehow you're _more_, and you've gotten past the sick stage and won't stop talking. Plus, you're kind of sprawled on my lap, which is uncomfortable for more than one reason.

By the time we reach the hospital, you're almost continuously giggling and I wonder if you're going to throw up again because you're swaying as we walk. Inside, they shove us into as waiting room that seems somehow dedicated to alcohol incidents. Funnily enough, at 9am, the room is empty, and Miss Pillsbury runs off to talk to the doctor.

And you're babbling again.

'You're…you're like the Beast!'

'What?' I'm not sure I _want_ to know what you're talking about, but I feel obliged to ask anyway.

'Frr…from Beast…the Beauty and the Beast! You're like the beast because you get angry and break stuff but really you're cuddly and fluffy like clouds. I wonder what a cloud would feel like. Can I cuddle you?' Without even letting me answer, you throw your arms around my waist and bury your face into my chest. Meanwhile, my heart explodes.

'All I want is a prince, you know? Izzat…is that too much to ask? Y-you could be my prince!' You laugh again, leaning against me. 'I'll be Belle and you be the Beast. B-but I don't want you to change into the prince at the end, 'cause he wasn't even that cute and it was such a disappointment.' You shake your head angrily into my shirt, then look up. '_You're_ cute.'

Your arm is moving and suddenly your thumb is tracing my lips and _holy fuck_ you're leaning up to kiss me and what do I do what do I do what do I –

I shove you away as gently as I can and feel a pang as your face falls. I don't know why I did it, other than the fact that _clearly_ that would be taking advantage of you and I'm sure you'd get upset about losing your first kiss to someone like me.

But…I didn't _want_ to stop you. Which is really saying something, because you've just been sick and oh yeah, you're a _guy_ and I'm not gay.

I think back to April and the way my stomach had turned when she tried to touch me. This hurt, but not in the same way, not in the 'ugh, I don't want to be anywhere near that,' way, but the 'why are you torturing me by being so close' kind of way. Which scares me.

Do I want to kiss you? Do I, god forbid, want to be your prince?

Fuck, no. That's so fucking gay.

'Daviiiiiid!' You draw out the world and grin, leaning towards me again and I think, fuck, maybe I should let you kiss me even though you probably taste like vomit and mouthwash. I allow you to wrap your arms around my waist and press yourself against me, letting me support your whole weight. For a few minutes, we just stand there like this, my heart beating way too fast and I'm breathing way too hard and…hey, you're breathing really hard too…

You're asleep.

You're actually asleep, standing up, resting in my arms.

Miss Pillsbury comes back in and regards us with a light smile. I shrug and smile back, and she points to another room. With a sigh, I grab your legs and carry you princess-style, smiling to myself at how much of a fuss you'd make if I did this while you were conscious.

'Mr. Schuester's going to come and pick you up.' She whispers. 'The doctor's going to check if he has alcohol poisoning, then we're going to have a little chat.' I nod, laying Kurt down on the bed. Then I bid my farewells to Emma and the doctor and go to meet up with Mr Scheue.

The blush doesn't leave my face the whole way back to school.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

_

* * *

_

It's later that day that it hits me that Azimio was right. There's nothing in particular that leads me to this conclusion, I've just seen him in the locker room, and it gets me thinking. I'm just mulling it over in my head and _bam!_ I realize that I've been an absolute fuckwit.

He _hasn't_ been ignoring me for the last few weeks. He hasn't even said anything bad against me, at least, nothing that couldn't be taken as a joke. In fact, he's been trying to talk to me again and again and I've just shoved him aside because…

Because I was too afraid to face rejection? Azimio's a semi-good person, most of the time, anyway. Sure, he sometimes takes things too far, and he's far too content to let an insult slip as a joke, but he's always stood by me.

I should probably apologize, shouldn't I?

'Hey, Az.' I call, my voice betraying me and coming out all quiet and kind of scared.

'Karofsky.' Oh, great, we've lost first name basis. That isn't good.

'I just wanted to say sorry.' I mumble, shoving my hands in my pockets. I can't quite bring myself to look him in the eye, not because I'm not sincere, but because I feel ashamed.

He, however, looks right at me, surveys me for a little while, then lets out a sigh. I can see the remnants of his black-eye as I glance up and guilt wells up in my stomach.

'Like I could ever stay mad at you, man.' He sighs and pulls me into a hug, which I tentatively return.

But I still need to make sure. 'And about that conversation...'

'Never happened.' He says, very calmly. 'But if you ever need to talk…' He's watching me very carefully, as if afraid I'll snap any minute. Not that he hasn't any reason to think I won't.

'Yeah.' I answer, glancing around. 'Thanks. I mean, there's nothing I need to…but, yeah.'

And just like that, everything is solved.

God, I wish all relationships could be as easy as this.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

'Dave!' You call to me in the hall and I drop everything I'm holding like an idiot.

'Uh. Kurt. Hi.' Very eloquent, Dave.

'I…um, I wanted to apologize for the other day. Miss Pillsbury said you stayed with me the whole time, even in the emergency room.'

'Erm…yeah, yeah I did. Well, you needed someone to help you. No worries…' I trail off, and try and think of a halfway subtle way of putting this. But thankfully you answer it before I have to ask:

'I don't really remember anything past throwing up on you…sorry for that too.'

'Nothing at all?' Maybe I sound a little too hopeful, because your eyes widen in panic.

'Oh, no. You sound worried. Did I do something stupid? Or inappropriate? I am _so, so_ sor –'

'No! No, you didn't, you were just funny. Wouldn't stop talking about Disney characters.' You look confused. 'Never mind.'

'Are you sure I didn't…say anything?' You're not looking at me now, and I wonder if you're telling the truth or whether you do remember something else.

'I'm sure.' I reassure you. Your shoulders relax, but it could also be an _I'm upset_ shoulder drop, I don't know. Then you kind of clear your throat as if to say '_Let's move on and not talk about _that _ever again.'_

'So…you and Rachel, huh? I heard Puck talking about it earlier.' I try with all my might to ignore the choked sound of your voice. When that doesn't work, I pretend that it's just embarrassment from the rest of the conversation.

But there's no denying that there's a tear in your eyes. And maybe I have just a little more awareness of why.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

_

* * *

_

So much happens in the next week or so I can't even begin to tell you. Rachel nearly comes back, and then Finn is a douchebag to her and she leaves again. Then we perform our Invitationals (and _damn,_ so many Brokeback Mountain jokes I had to resist at your cowboy outfit,) then _she_ leaves then Rachel comes _back…_ I think it's all solved at the end of things, but there's still one massive problem.

I appear to be dating Rachel Berry.

I mean, I'm sure she doesn't actually think we're dating but the girl is a damn good actress and I nearly believe it myself. It kind of leads me into thinking that maybe I should consider dating her.

Why not? She's a girl, I'm a guy. We're both single. And…does there need to be more reason than that?

I don't think it matters that I'm not attracted to her, because isn't that something that comes with time? Maybe if I just try and get into this, like she is, I really will fall for her and she can have her fucking crescendo.

This is my train of thought when Puckerman is teasing us about our relationship. Perhaps it's because the guy is practically a sex-addict, but he seems to be able to tell there's something off about us. So when he tells me to _prove_ that I'm dating Rachel, I think about crescendos and musical babies, and I kiss her square on the lips.

I am now aware of three things: firstly, Rachel Berry does literally taste of berries. She must be wearing flavored chapstick.

Secondly, when a guy (you) pops into my head when I'm kissing a girl (Rachel) it's probably not a good thing.

And thirdly…if kissing a girl makes me feel nauseous, there may be a slight chance that I'm gay.

Thanks, Rachel, for clearing that up for me.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	6. Vitamin D

Uhh, hi guys! I'm so sorry this took so long, but it was an absolute bitch to write. That and about a million essays stood in the way of my inspiration! In apology, please accept this incredibly long chapter. The longest chapter I've ever written. It's...um,_ over 9000_, actually. *is shot*

**Rating:** M again, swearing, mentions of sex.

**Warnings: **Blah blah, slash, blah...also proofread at 6am so probably mistakes everywhere - feel free to tell me! XD**  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, Klaineofsky St. Smartie Fuck would be endgame.

**Notes: **Scrap what I said last time, this is the longest-ass chapter ever. Also, just want to say thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing, you guys are too awesome. To the anons who I can't reply to, thanks so much, you're so sweet! *wipes away tear*

Oh, yes, and the song that they perform in this chapter is a real mashup I found randomly on youtube. It's...kind of insane, but I love it:  
h t t p : / / www. youtube. com / watch?v=nFCv88NwZXs&feature=related (remove the spaces, you know the drill!)

I also have a picture in progress of the performance (I have the whole darn thing choreographed in my head...) Because I'm way too cool like that.

Enjoy! :D

* * *

**Vitamin D**

I'm not a logical person by nature. I act without thinking; I'm spontaneous, and I usually suffer because I don't think things through.

But I'm not stupid. I know that not liking girls plus having weird, indescribable feelings for a guy probably equals homo. But I can choose to ignore that, because, hey, there's no solid evidence there, right?

What I can't ignore is the dreams.

I can't ignore them because they're almost every fucking night now. It's not like I haven't had _those_ kind of dreams before, heck, I've even dreamt about guys before (that's perfectly normal, right?) but these are different because they're all about _you_.

At first they were really non-specific, just bodies and sweat and thrusting and then…well, you know, sticky sheets and lots of tissues. And that was bad enough, _embarrassing_ enough. I could barely look at you without my face turning bright red, even though the dreams weren't specific enough to be _personal._

But for the last few days, they've changed. I'm not just…_doing _you anymore; I'm _touching_ you in places I never thought were sexy. I'm running my fingers along your shoulder and that's enough to set me off. I'm kissing your neck and stroking you so tenderly, like I know you, like we've been together forever. Or worse, I'm buying you flowers, or taking you on a dinner date to breadsticks, ending with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

It's _romantic_, and that's what scares me the most: the romance, the _feelings._ When it's just bodies it's not special but when I'm kissing you like that and holding you like you're mine and telling you things I swear I don't really feel…it's like…like I'm…

No. This is just a phase. The dreams will stop eventually; I'll just have to try to put them to the back of my mind. But, fuck, it's not like I can _ignore_ them! Every fucking night now, I have to deal with you touching me; licking me…kissing me…it's driving me crazy.

So I've decided to just not sleep.

The first day, it's fine. Yeah, everything's a little blurry and sluggish, but I can deal. You make a comment about how I'm doing a Finn, staring blankly into the distance, and I just grin dozily and try not to remember what you looked like when I licked your nipples.

That night, I sleep for about an hour before I'm giving you head in the choir room. Then I wake up with a hard-on and spend the rest of the night watching heterosexual porn. Funnily enough, it doesn't have quite the same effect.

The second day is weird, because I don't remember most of it. It sort of passes in a blur of faces and words and at some point I hear Mr. Schue complaining because he hasn't been sent the names of our competition yet. At lunchtime I fall asleep on the cafeteria table and dream about taking you to the prom, and you poke me awake, staring worriedly and tell me I was mumbling something about color coordination and flowers.

That night I don't sleep at all, instead taking enough caffeine pills to keep a dead man awake, washing it down with about six cans of red bull. I try to do homework but the words just won't stay still on the paper, and I give up quickly. I resort to facebook-stalking you before realizing that probably isn't any better than the dreams. Then I end up on youtube for about four hours, before stopping myself after unconsciously leaving a link on your page at 6am. (With the words 'dude – check this out lmao' attached. _Smooth_, Dave, real smooth.)

I drift off on the way to school the next day and wake up crying because you left McKinley to join the circus as a tightrope walker.

Okay, so the dreams are officially getting weirder. My dad gives me a worried look when I blurt out 'but you _hate_ clowns!' before realizing that I was dreaming.

By now I've almost lost all grips with reality. Every time I see you, I go bright red and start mumbling like I've forgotten how to speak. Rachel, now a semi-permanent attachment to my arm, seems to think I've got brain damage.

But I'm not the only one who's suffering right now. When Mr. Schue bursts into the choir room, fuming about something, Finn jolts of out his own little stupor, stares around the room to see if anyone noticed, then sinks back down into his chair. See, I notice that. Probably because I do something similar.

Mr. Schue is angry about something but I'm not sure what. I hear the words 'Sue Sylvester,' 'competition' and 'schools,' but I don't really know how to connect the dots. Then you burst into laughter beside me, and everyone stares.

'Sorry, funny youtube.' I feel my heart leap slightly as I realize you followed my link. 'It's the grape-stomping one.' You glance over at me for a second, and for some reason I think it's a good idea to wink at you, which just results in you sending me an odd look then staring intensely down at your knees.

Then Mr. Schue is clapping his hands together in that way he does when he thinks he's got a great idea, and suddenly I'm being dragged over to the right hand side of the choir room.

But wait, where are you going? This is the guys' side. Why are you–

'Kurt.' Mr. Schue says firmly, and you turn to look at him. A nod to our side, a brief glance, and you're headed back here. Even in my state, I can see the disappointment in your eyes, but you glance my way and move to stand next to me.

Mr. Schue is talking about a competition and mash-ups and all I can think is _why the hell am I standing up let me sleep let me sleeeep._ On my other side, Finn seems to have fallen asleep on his feet, which I didn't think was possible.

Words drift through my haze – _explosion of musical expression, all out, choreography, sectionals, celebrity…_when will this be _over?_

Oh, right, people are leaving. I begin to follow and you come up to me and ask me worriedly if I'm okay. Out of the corner of my eye I see Mr. Schue asking Finn the same thing. Except you're talking in slow motion, which is weird.

'Mfn.' I reply, which was meant to be _I'm fine,_ but I don't have the energy to pronounce every syllable.

Then you lean up and put your hand on my forehead and _whoa whoa whoa_ that is far too intimate for me, thank you! I leap back and try to ignore your wince and how quickly you retract your hand. As Puck slaps me on the back and then grabs Finn's shoulder, saying something about football, you back off and leave the room.

During practice, someone kicks me in the head and I black out for ten minutes. The really sad thing is, it's the best part of the whole damn day.

When I get home, I fall asleep almost immediately on my living room couch. An hour later, I'm dreaming that something _bad_ happened to you and I'm kissing you better and wiping away salty tears from your cheeks. You're sobbing and shaking and it's so wrong because you're such a tough person, you _can't _break down like this! I pull you towards me and grasp you hard, letting you cry into my shoulder, whispering in your ear.

_It's going to be okay, baby. Don't worry, it'll be okay. Kurt, Kurt, I'm here. I'm here, baby. Kurt, I lo-_

I jolt awake, face drenched and eyes streaming. I storm up to my room, shoving my dad out of the way in the process. My head is pounding and I feel nauseous.

Why the fuck would I _dream_ that? Why can't I just sleep in peace? I put my iPod on full blast and drown out my dad's knocks and worried words through the door. Then, when I think he's gone, I watch the whole of _The Walking Dead,_ thinking it might scare my fatigue away.

By the morning, my bin is overflowing with red bull cans and I haven't slept a wink.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~

* * *

_

_'He's drooling.'_

I run my fingers softly through your hair, circling your neck before running kisses down it, hearing you gasp softly. Then I bring my lips up to meet yours in heated kiss, capturing your tongue in mine and massaging it softly. You moan into my mouth, hands twisted in my shirt and trying to keep control, but failing. When I pull back, a line of drool drips down your chin and I lick it off gently with a smirk.

_'You think we should wake them? Karofsky's gonna flip when he sees Finn's drooled all over his shoulder.'_

Then I wrap my arms around you and pull you close, pressing our chests together so I can feel your breathing and heartbeat. You're panting slightly, trying to get your breath back. You lean into my shoulder.

_'Anyone got a camera? This is perfect blackmail material.'_

Then _flash!_ A camera flashes and panic shoot through me. Who was that? Who saw us? But you're smiling and your hands on my face soothing me and telling me not to worry, everything will be alright, nobody can see us here…

_'Dude, wake up!' _

I jolt awake and elbow Finn in the face.

'Wha?' Both of us cry at the same time, and Finn looks even more confused than I feel.

You're looking at me oddly and _please dear god please _say I wasn't talking in my sleep.

I glance towards Finn who is nursing his cheek and feel immediately guilty…before I notice the wet patch of drool on my shoulder and resist the urge to elbow him harder.

But my eyes are already drooping, and Finn's starting to lean towards me again.

'What's _wrong _with you two?' Puck pokes Finn in the chest and he sits upright again. I glare at Finn in warning. Just because I'm _cushioned_ doesn't mean he can use me as one.

'Go to the nurse!' Puck says with derision. I wonder if he thinks the reason we're both tired is _connected_ or something. Damn. 'Every day I have a headache, I sleep for three hours.' Sleep. No, sleep is bad. Can't sleep. But want to sleep so, so bad… 'I haven't attended a math class in two years.' You roll your eyes at that one.

'Urghhh.' I say in agreement, as Finn gets up and I try to stand without wobbling. My eyes physically hurt from being open. I trudge after Finn as we leave and wonder if this is what it would feel like to be one of the zombies I watched last night.

When we get to the nurse's office, we're told to sit outside and both of us flop down in chairs and try not to instantly fall asleep.

'So,' I attempt conversation, 'Why're you so tired?'

Finn shrugs and rubs at his eyes. 'I've just got so much going on…football, Glee, the _baby…_My mom says I'm stretched too thin, so I gave up homework, but that didn't help.' I can't help but let out a laugh and Finn scratches his head with a grin. 'All I know is that last night, I got vaporized on level two. _Level two.'_

I wince and say 'Dude!' while he nods and rubs at his eyes again.

'So what's up with you? You don't have a load of baby drama to deal with. It's not Rachel, is it?' I get the feeling there's more to that question than he's letting on.

'Uh, no. I…I was actually thinking about ending with her. I just don't feel the spark, you know?' I say, and then realize this isn't the best time to be lying since I can barely speak coherently as it is.

'You serious? I mean, I know she's not really that great in the boob compartment,' I think he means _department_ but I'm not sure at this point, 'but there's something about her that's totally hot.' He stops himself, wide-eyed. 'Not that I'm digging on your girl or anything, I mean, I have Quinn, you know?' He glances around and then decides to change the subject. 'But you didn't answer the question man, why are you so tired?'

'Been getting nightmares.' I lie, surprisingly fluidly, 'I know it's really lame, but I can't sleep.'

'Tough break, man.' Finn sighs, _still_ rubbing his eyes. He's making mine itch, plus his yawn is infectious.

At this moment, the nurse calls us in, and it takes me a second to recognize her as Mr. Schue's wife…who I don't remember being a nurse, but oh well. Too tired to think about it.

I spend the next ten minutes tuning out the conversation she and Finn are having because as soon as she finds out who he is, I seem to cease to exist. Oh, well. More time for me to focus on _not _sleeping.

Then she's rambling on about how _she_ dealt with high school and shit and all I want to do is go to sleep, and there's a bed right there but I _can't,_ I have to stay awake! I can't dream again, it hurts too much…

Hey, is she giving us drugs?

I think I missed the important part of this conversation.

'Are they safe?' Finn asks as Mrs. Schuester hands us both two blue pills.

'They're over the counter! They stock them next to the candy bars.' She puts two cups of water on the counter. 'I'm the school nurse. I know what I'm doing.'

Finn and I glance at each other, then shrug and pop the pills.

About ten minutes later, I don't think I'll ever sleep again in my whole life.

So, here I am. My feet won't stop twitching everything's going at double-speed like someone sat on the remote and clicked fast-forward and now they can't turn it off and whooaaaa they're missing the film, oh no!

Finn and I are sat outside Mrs. Schuester's office, where she told us to sit until we felt well enough to go back to practice. And we're feeling _well_, fuck yeah! So we start walking back.

'I totally never need to sleep again!' I say, throwing my hands up. 'This is great! Great! Now I can live a life unruined by hormones! _Yaaay!'_ Embarrassingly enough, I do actually say both the words _unruined_ and _yaaay._

'Wait, I thought you said you couldn't sleep 'cause of nightmares?' Finn asks, his mouth stretched into a grin. He's walking with a skip that makes him look even more childish, despite being over 6 foot tall; hell, he's practically _bouncing. _

'Well, uh, yeah. No. Yeah.' What am I saying? 'Not exactly nightmares. You know, dreams. Dreams…_those _kind of dreams.' The more I say dreams, the less meaning it seems to have. Dreams. Dreams. _Dreams. Dreeeeeaaams. _

'Dude, about Rachel?'

It's not lying if they assume, right? Haha, _ass_ume. I like ass. I like your ass. Aaaaasssssss.

'Uh, yeah.'

'Oh, man! Don't sweat it; I get those dreams all the time! I had one last week about a _teacher,_ it was so weird, I could barely sit through Math without feeling embarrassed, and she put a smiley face on my essay so I swear she knew, hey, I wonder if she's psychic? I always thought that would be the coolest power ever-'

For some reason, I think that Finn's finished so I start talking at him, but he doesn't seem to notice and carries on. His voice is funny, he sounds like…that dog from Up, who is so cool…_squirrel! _…Uh, wait, what was I saying? Oh, yeah, the dreams. 'This is so great, now I can stay awake forever and I don't have to deal with the dreams, 'cause, you know, Kurt really doesn't like clowns and I've never even _seen _him naked so how would I know what he looks like anyway?' I shrug and Finn looks baffled.

'Whoa, clowns? Clowns are creepy. I don't like clowns! Have you ever seen a clown without the makeup because I wanna know if they really have big smiles or maybe they frown all the time-' He trails off and stares into the distance, a huge grin on his face.

'-I mean, I've seen him in a unitard, which pretty much revealed everything, but I don't really know what he'd look like without it. I wonder if he has hair on his chest 'cause it would be weird if he had _none_ even if he is kind of girly, unless he shaves it which would be kind of hot too-' I babble, not even talking _to_ anyone anymore. Finn's also talking to someone, or is he talking to me? I'm not sure, but he's talking.

'-and then, in my dream, Rachel was there _with _Quinn and _that _was weird. I mean, it's not like it means I like her or anything, right? It just means – hey, wait, what did you say about Kurt?'

Oh, fuck, I wasn't talking about Kurt, was I? I was supposed to be talking about Rachel. Whoa, Finn's kind of spinning, that's cool. And ha, it took him a long time to pick that up. I must have said, like, a gazillion things since I said _Kurt_. He's so slow, for someone talking so fast.

'Uh. Nothing. Just joking! Haha.' I let out a feeble laugh and after a brief second, he bursts into hysterics. Which is funny. Hilarious. Fucking _hysterical_. I feel my whole body collapse into laughter and Finn and I just stand there laughing for about five minutes about…something. What's so funny, anyway? I keep laughing even though I've forgotten.

Oh, hey, there's the choir room. Why are we here? Right, the song. We should choose a song, I like songs, singing is fun!

We burst into the choir room like the opening to a Disney song, arms bared and dopey grins on our faces.

'Hey guys!' Finn yells, grabbing Mike and hugging him. I follow him, practically skipping.

'How's it going?' I ask everyone, and they look at me blankly. Why aren't they happy? They should be happy. It's a beautiful day!

'Let's run through the number!' Finn says, and I jump up and down a little in agreement. You stare at me with wide eyes, looking up from filing your nails. You have nice nails. I bet you take good care of them. I wonder if you'd do my nails if I asked you, not that I care that much but you have really nice hands and I bet you'd be great at it.

'Dave, are you okay?' You ask, and I realize I've been talking aloud. That's so _funny!_ Now you probably think I'm insane.

Finn is now rushing around the room pulling everyone to their feet and I think that you should be standing too, so I grab you by the arms, but halfway through change my mind and pull you into a hug instead.

'Your hair smells like fruit. I like fruit. I know that's weird because it's healthy and stuff but I do like healthy food. I also like McDonalds, though, so I guess that evens it out. I bet you hate McDonalds, Kurt, 'cause it's so fattening but you shouldn't worry about that because you're beautiful and I don't think you'd be ugly even if you were, like, clinically obese.'

'Uh, Dave. Dave, _Dave!_ Uh, thank you?_'_ You peel yourself off me and I grab your hand, stroking it against my cheek like I did in that one dream where I serenaded you on your doorstep and then we had really hot sex in your living room. 'Are…are you okay?'

'Has your soul been taken over by caffeinated space aliens?' Artie poses the question slightly differently. _HA!_ Space aliens! How cool would that be?

'Nope, just visited the school nurse, we got this great vitamin, I feel _fantastic!'_ Finn shouts in one breath, waving his hands, while I stare at your hands.

'What kind of vitamin?'

God, they're beautiful, I just want to stroke them. I wonder what the inside of your fingers feels like. I trace them with my own and look up at you. You're looking at me like I really have had my soul taken over.

'Vitamin C?' You suggest, and everyone turns to look at us with baffled expression. 'Vogue magazine says it boosts energy levels and- _eeek!'_ you screech as I run a finger along the palm of your hand. I guess you're ticklish. '…Brightens the complexion?'

'Nope! Vitamin D!' I pipe up, and Finn throws the box at Puck, who examines it.

'And we got you guys some!' He says, and then grabs Matt's shoulder, while Matt tries to escape.

Everyone looks at us dubiously, and now that I've released your hand you grab the box from Puck, who's taken the pill packets out.

'Are these even safe? Dave seems to have gone even more insane than Finn.'

'They're over the counter!' Finn and I parrot in unison, and Kurt looks at both of us skeptically.

Puck's already popped two, grinning to himself, and everyone else has started following suit, but you continue to read the box. 'Guys, I really don't thin-'

'Oh, come on, Hummel! Live a little!' Puck says, and your eyebrows furrow.

There's a pause, while you look at me and I grin in reply. Your shoulders droop and you make a face I don't recognize. 'Fine.' You sigh, and take two pills.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~

* * *

_

'Omigosh, guys, we should have _feathers! _Feathers, guys, _feathers!'_ You squeak, and I can't help but burst into giggles.

'Like _bird _feathers?' I ask, and you look mildly confused.

'No…like…yeah…bird feathers! We could use peacock feathers!' The grin returns and I realize I've never seen you really _happy_ before, not in the teeth-baring-grin kind of way.

Wait, what were we saying? Oh yeah, peacocks. I like peacocks. I remember making a joke about them in biology 'cause their name has the word _cock _in it. 'I like cock.' Oh wait fuck no that wasn't what I meant! '_Peacocks._ I like peacocks! Peacocks are so cool!'

'Me too! I mean, peacocks. Well, I _also_ like…but…yes. Peacocks!' You flick your hair out of your eyes but it flops back down again. 'Like Katy Perry!' At this you cackle and after about a second of silence we spontaneously sing _'I wanna see your peacock!'_ at the top of our lungs. The other guys stare over at us, just as crazy but a little bit worried.

'Katy Perry is so cool.' I say, and you nod about ten times. 'We should sing a Katy Perry song!'

You burst into giggles again, 'We can't sing _Peacock_! Figgins would _die!'_

'Fine, another one! We should do a mashup of Katy Perry and…and…something else. And…and we can put in _loads_ of people! Like, everyone who's famous!'

'Like Ke$ha?' Puck asks, sounding hopeful. I nod enthusiastically.

'What about Britney?' You suggest, then glance around, 'Mr. Schue keeps rejecting my requests to do Britney!'

'Yeah, and Britney!' Even Finn seems happy about that, 'And, uh…who's that blond girl? Taylor Swift! She's famous, right?' The club responds with happy mumbling.

'And you can have Lady Gaga in there too-' Your face lights up, 'and we can have _other_ stuff!' Everyone is bouncing and fist bumping and this is the _best idea ever. _

'But…we can't do all that, it's too hard!' You giggle and swing your legs under your chair.

'But that's what'll make it awesome! We can even put Journey in there to make Mr. Schue happy!'

Artie, who's looking on, grins giddily. 'We could totally do that. Let's blow the girls out of the water, y'all!'

I glance over at you, 'Don't you go telling the girls about this, okay?' You have the decency to look guilty, and I know you were pondering it. 'You're doing Gaga _and_ Britney, so no complaints!' I'm met with a grin and a hug.

'You're the best, Dave! The _best!'_

'Let's do this!' Artie whoops.

And that's how we decide on a Journey/ 3OH!3/ Ke$ha/ Lady GaGa/ Britney/ Katy Perry/ Taylor Swift / Black Eyed Peas mashup.

Oh, you think I'm _joking?_ Oh, no, no. When you're higher than a kite on "Vitamin D", mashing nine or so songs together seems like a _brilliant_ idea.

It takes us a while to plan for two reasons: firstly because it's a ridiculous amount of songs and secondly because none of us can really pay attention for more than five minutes.

'Okay, Kurt, you take Gaga and Britney-'

'_Yay!' _You leap into the air and _whoaaa, whoa!_ I catch you as you fall off your chair and laugh down at your red face. Gently, I put you back onto your seat, and you giggle to yourself.

'Mike and Matt take the _my first kiss_ bit of 3OH!3 and Artie, you lead the chorus, okay? And also, Artie, can you take the Black Eyed Peas bit at the beginning?'

'Sure thing!'

'Puck, do you mind singing the Katy Perry bit? We need a bit of attitude.' I nod over at him and he grins wickedly.

'Dude, we all know I'm the only one here badass enough to sing Katy Perry.'

'Awesome, and Finn and Puck together take Journey.' I stare down at the sheet of paper I'm holding, covered in spidery writing of ideas that we've been coming up with for the last hour. 'And…I, uh, I guess that leaves me with Taylor Swift.' I shrug, as everyone laughs. 'If we do _You Belong With Me,_ I can hold up those signs like she does in the video? With the band names on or something?'

The next few hours is a blur of songs and costumes and dancing and…wait, we probably should have gone to our lessons…

Oh, well. This is much more fun!

When it finally comes to the performance, we're greeted by an air of superiority by the girls, who clearly think we're going to have started planning this five minutes ago and are just _winging it._

You came up with the idea that we should dress according to what parts we sing, so I'm currently dressed in a white t-shirt with scribbles all over it and scruffy jeans. I'm also wearing glasses that I borrowed off that wrestler girl, Lauren Zizes. In my arms I'm holding a load of handwritten signs with all the bands we're performing on them.

Puck's dressed in a tuxedo like the guy from Katy Perry's _Hot n' Cold_ video. You wanted to put him in the wedding dress but, unsurprisingly, he wasn't down with that. Matt, Mike and Artie are dressed as 3OH!3 and Finn is looking hilarious sporting a 70s look a la Journey.

And then there's you. Whilst you don't look as…um, _provocative_ as either Britney or Lady Gaga, you are looking rather fine. You've got a blonde wig on that could be either Britney or Gaga, but it has diet coke cans woven in which is Gaga, right? Then, a white shirt with a black waistcoat and black skinnies which I swear to god are sprayed on. Your thigh high Doc Martens complete your look, something that we're all mirroring with different Docs.

For a few seconds, the room is quiet.

_'My first kiss went a little like this…'_ start Mike and Matt, and the whole room stops breathing.

I hold up my 3OH!3 sign.

Puck emerges, tuxedo and all, _'You change your mind like a girl changes clothes…'_ He sings, sending a wink over at Quinn as he moves onto '_You PMS like a bitch! I would know!'_ She scowls at him, but soon she's too engrossed in the song to even care.

_'I got a feeling-'_ Artie cuts in.

_'That you're no good for me…'_ Puck completes, a smirk gracing his features.

A moment of silence. Then the chorus breaks in and suddenly everyone's on their feet. '_She won't ever get enough, once she gets a little touch! If I had it my way, you know that I'd make you say-'_

_'1, 2, 3! Not only you and me, got one eighty degrees and I'm caught in between!'_ Your singing breaks through the chorus, dancing not quite as raunchily as Britney but earning some whistles from the girls nonetheless. Artie sings the next line of 3OH!3 and you counter with Britney again, then as the verse restarts, you march forward for the Beyoncé part of _Telephone. _My _Gaga_ sign goes up.

The audience is staring at us, transfixed. We're a blizzard of movement and song, and everyone cheers and laughs as Finn and Puck suddenly launch into _Journey._ Mr. Schue is grinning and nodding in humored appreciation.

You're back on the stage now, performing another snippet of Britney's _3, _before it hits me that it's my turn next. I take centre stage and everyone stares and glances at each other, wondering who I'm performing. You're next to me, and we turn so that we're back to back, just like we practiced. I hold a mobile phone in my right hand so the audience can see it. You glance at me with a look of pure and utter sass as you take on the role of Gaga. The idea is that we're on the phone to each other, having a domestic or something.

_'You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset.' _I sing into the phone, and you flick your wig at me. You're holding a phone too, one of those old ones with the curly cords that's let loose and then twisted around your waist a few times, looking strangely in place with your outfit. '_She's going off about something that you said…'_

_'Hello, hello, baby, you called? I can't hear a thing, I have got no service in the club, you see, see!' _You sing into your own phone, perfectly mimicking Gaga.

_'I'm in my room, it's a typical Tuesday Night. I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like…' _I allow my voice to crackle and break at the end, like there's bad reception.

_'What, what did you say, oh, you're breaking up on me! Sorry, I cannot hear you, I'm kind of busy!' _You throw the phone down but catch it before it hits the ground, strutting to the side of the stage in the opposite direction of me. I glance down at my phone, then back at you, and start to follow you.

'_She won't ever get enough, once she gets a little touch! If I had it my way, you know that I'd make you say-'_

_'Stop calling, stop calling! I don't want to think anymore!'_ You push me back hard and I act hurt, dropping back. _'I left my head and my heart on the dance floor!'_ You clutch both in time with the song, then flip round and start to walk away again. Your attitude is deadly. I immediately start to follow again and soon we're at the front, centre stage.

'_She won't ever get enough, once she gets a little touch! If I had it my way, you know that I'd make you say-'_

_'Why can't you see? You belong with me?' _I make a dramatic motion as I drop to my knees and I see you straining not to smile. Then I stand and face the front as Matt, Finn and I start the last part.

'_My first kiss went a little like this!'_ Our heavy Doc Martens stomp, '_And twist!' _We jump round, '_And twist!'_

You, Mike, and Puck echo us on the left side of the stage. Then, music reaching a crescendo, we bring it to a close, all marching in front of the stage and ending with the most badass poses the world has ever seen.

The performance is epic.

No, epic isn't a strong word. Mind-blowingly, brain-numbingly, supernova-inducing fucking _awesome._

So of course we're going to win.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~__

* * *

_

'Uuuurgh.' I cry, trying to ignore the fact that that's become my catchphrase in the last couple of days. It's the next day and I'm out of blue pills. Okay, so maybe I took too many this week, and maybe I'm a little addicted but had I known the come-down would be _this_ bad I would have just lived with the fucking exhaustion! The girls' performance hadn't helped either, even though they'd lacked the enthusiasm we had, practically defeated before they already started. That didn't stop them from dressing entirely in fucking _yellow,_ though.

I clutch my head and groan loudly. I'm sat with you in a dark classroom, where you brought me after I started shaking and swaying in the halls. 'You took the stuff too.' I moan at him, 'Why didn't you crash?'

You chuckle softly and shrug. 'I wasn't exhausted beforehand. You should take better care of yourself, David. You need to sleep.'

'I can't.' I say, darkly. My head is now firmly embedded in my arms. My sleeves smell of cafeteria. Ugh.

'If you don't sleep, your complexion will suffer.' You say, in a way that I can't tell if you're being serious or not.

'If I do sleep, my brain will suffer.' I grumble back.

'…are you going to tell me what that means, or is it one of those things I shouldn't ask about?'

'It's nothing.' I snap. Perhaps too quickly. Perhaps too harshly. But you just rise to it and huff haughtily.

'If it's stopping you from sleeping, it isn't nothing! We both have free periods now, why don't you have a nap?' Your voice drops from angry to gentle in a single sentence, and it's oddly soothing.

'Where?' I groan, and look up at you. You offer a reassuring smile, but I can just about see the worry in your eyes, even in the dim light.

'What about the nurse's office?' You suggest softly.

I let out a bitter laugh. 'I tried that already! She gave me drugs!'

'You could go to sleep here? I know it's not comfortable or anything but I'll sit here and make sure no one–'

'_No!'_ You look taken aback. 'I'm sorry. I just…I'm not going to sleep. Ever.'

'You do know that if you don't sleep, eventually you'll die?' You say, dryly. Your expression, as far as I can see, is slightly pissed off.

'Of course I do.' We fall into an awkward silence, and then I sigh. 'How long until I die?'

'Well, I think the record is about ten days. But you'll collapse from exhaustion before then.'

'Wow, now I feel better.' I groan sarcastically, putting my head back into my arms. Then I jump slightly as I feel your tentative hand on my shoulder.

'Just sleep. It can't be that bad.' Your fingers are rubbing my back very gently and it's the most hypnotic thing I've ever felt. I can already feel my eyelids drooping and my muscles relaxing.

Darkness sweeps over me almost immediately but for the hour I lie there with your arm around me, I don't dream at all.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~

* * *

_

Okay, so an hour's sleep doesn't exactly solve anything, but when you gently shake me awake, my head is a little clearer.

And this is when I realize two things: first, that I told Finn that I'm having wet-dreams about you. And secondly, that I'm a big fat cheat that doesn't deserve to win.

The first one puts me in a state of panic. Because Finn _knows,_ he knows and when he comes down from his happy-pill state he's going to realize what I said to him and everything is going to come crashing down around my ears. What do I do? Fuck.

I spend about ten minutes pacing by my locker, trying to figure out how to kill Finn quietly and dispose of the body, before I think that maybe that would be a slight overreaction.

Rachel comes by and asks me if I'm all right, and my second realization hits me like a fish to the face. I'm overcome sudden onslaught of guilt. Perhaps I feel bad because Rachel has been moping around looking like I killed her pet kitten, or maybe it's just that in my earlier blur I didn't notice how shitty it was, cheating and taking all the praise.

So, right now, I'm ignoring Finn and coming clean to Mr. Schue. I briefly spoke to the others about it, (avoiding eye contact with Finn at all costs) and they all mumbled in agreement. At least we all have a conscience.

'Mr. Schue, I need to talk to you.' I say, as I stand in his office doorway, squirming in my shoes. He looks confused, and glances around the room quickly, before nodding. I close the door behind me and sit down, head lowered.

'I figured you're probably going to find out about this at some point, so I thought I should…I should tell you before you do.' He's staring right at me, and I can't help but remember the last time I was here for a _serious chat._

Then I was getting accused of taking drugs, and this time I'm confessing to taking drugs. I'm sure there's some kind of irony in there.

'We cheated.' I admit, feeling my face flush red. 'We took something…Nurse…um, Mrs. Schuester called it Vitamin D or something…they use it in decongestant? I mean, it's not illegal or anything! But…it's why we were so good. You should disqualify us.'

It takes a few moments for Mr. Schue to digest the information, and then he gives a long, drawn-out sigh and puts his head in his hands. 'Thanks for telling me, David.' He says, and I stare down at my lap in shame. 'I just…first Kurt getting drunk, and then this? I'm starting to wonder if I'm letting you guys be exposed to bad role models. Don't misunderstand, Dave, I'm angry at all of you. But you came and told me and that's important. I…I'll think of a punishment for you guys later, but yes, you're disqualified.'

I nod and wonder why he's not yelling, but instead rubbing his temples. 'I need to go and talk to Terri.' He mumbles, and I take that for my cue to leave.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~

* * *

_

With that problem somewhat solved, I'm back to my pacing and worrying about Finn, when Rachel returns and engulfs me in a hug. (Or at least, as much as a small girl can engulf a large footballer.)

'I think it's very admirable that you told Mr. Schue. I'm proud of your honesty, Dave. It's one of your best traits.' Rachel says, smiling. I'm not sure if it's because she won the competition or because she actually is proud of me, but either way she's smiling, which is usually a good thing, right?

Except…she's praising my _honesty._

It just doesn't seem right, I mean, I'm one of the most dishonest people ever because I'm living a big fucking lie, aren't I? Even if that lie is teetering on the edge of disaster, depending on one Finn Hudson.

And if it comes out…if _I_ come out…as whatever the fuck I'm supposed to _be_ here, then Rachel…oh, God. I have to tell her. I have to, or _he_ will and she'll be so fucking disappointed with me.

'Rachel, I need to tell you something. Well, talk to you about something.'

For a moment, she has this look of _hope_ and I realize she still has feelings for me! Oh, God, this is probably leading her on. Just another result of my dishonesty, and she's going to get hurt because of it.

It has to stop. I have to stop. I have to tell _someone_ about this, someone who I actually trust. I mean, Rachel may be annoying as hell sometimes but…whether I like it or not, she _is_ my friend now. And she's a girl, so that means she understands emotional crap, right?

'It's about Kurt.'

Her expression changes from hope to confusion almost instantly, but she doesn't look angry. 'Kurt?' She repeats, and I nod, swallowing. My throat is dry, and god, so are my lips. I lick them nervously and she surveys me curiously.

'And…well, also kind of the reason I told Puck we were dating. Because…well, because of Kurt. I…think. Um.' Shit, _breathe,_ Dave. _Breathe!_ I did this earlier, how hard can it be? Only, this time I'm not high on whatever the crap medicine the nurse gave me and I don't feel like I'm walking on sunshine or any of that shit. I actually feel quite nauseous.

'IfinkIhafeelinsorim.' It comes out as a blurt, and now she looks even more confused. I bite back a breath and tell myself that I'm a man, and men don't cry, even when they're scared absolutely shitless. 'I think…I have feelings for him.'

I've said it. I've said it out loud, without drugs or anything. I've admitted it…that's the first step, right? And hell, I'll admit I do feel better, even if Rachel's probably never going to talk to me again, which is likely since she's…

Smiling. No, _grinning._ From ear to fucking ear. Does she think I'm joking? Or is my suffering funny or something?

'Oh, David!' She exclaims, and I'm actually scared at her enthusiasm. 'This is _wonderful!'_

Um. Okay? 'What?'

'Do you have any idea what you've just done for my career! A tragic, unrequited relationship with someone who turns out to be gay! You've just written a chapter of my biography!'

I do sometimes wonder why I'm friends with Rachel.

I should probably rebuke her selfishness, or ask for advice or maybe just ask her what she thinks of me now, but instead all I manage is, 'I'm not gay,' in a strained voice, which earns me a raised eyebrow.

'But you said…' and now my defensive reactions are blazing and I'm pulling back, my shoulders tense. I can already feel my nerves stretched like an elastic band.

'I know. But I'm…I'm not gay, okay? I can't be.' My voice is practically a growl. I sound almost threatening.

'And why not?'

'Because…because I'm _not._ It's not _right._'

'Not right?' Her eyes seem to narrow slightly. 'I never took you for a homophobe, David. At least, not _really,_ even if you used to act that way around your friends.'

'And what do you care, anyway? It's not like you're gay or anything!' I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one can hear us.

'That doesn't mean I can't support gay couples! You need to understand that there's nothing wrong with being gay.' No, no, no. She's wrong, it's wrong, it's…not something I can be.

'There's _plenty_ wrong with it! The Bible says-' She cuts me off with a sharp, bitter laugh.

'You're really going to use that argument?' She asks, as if she knows that I stopped believing in that stuff long ago.

'Fine! But I still know it isn't right! Two guys _touching_ each other…it's just not _normal!'_

'And your feelings for Kurt?' She counters, and again, my head whips around to make sure we're alone.

'I don't _know!' _My voices emerges as a low whine, and I feel as if I'm about to cry. 'They're…they're wrong, I shouldn't…it's just a phase, they'll go away.'

'Why do you want them to? Why not tell him-'

'No freaking _way,_ Rachel! If you say a _word,_ I'll _kill_ you.' The threat slips out before I even think about it but Rachel brushes it off.

'I don't understand why you're so resistant! What if he likes you back? What if he wants a relationship with you? Why would you be so opposed to having a happily ever after?'

This is too much. Too much at one time to deal with. A _relationship_ with you? A happily ever after? Why should I deserve one of those? As if you'd ever want someone like me anyway. Even with your drunken babble…those feelings, your feelings, my feelings, they're nothing but temporary. Just a phase. They'll go away. _They'll go away._

'Two guys can't _have_ a happily ever after, Rachel! It just…it doesn't happen.'

'Do you really believe that?'

I nod, and she sighs, defeated. 'Fine. I'll let it go, under one condition.'

'What?'

'You come for dinner at my house on Friday. We're just having take-out and a movie, nothing special.'

I raise an eyebrow at her and she stares fixedly, waiting for an answer. Why would she want me to go to her house? Does she have a stack of gay porn to show me to convince me, or something? Or maybe her family are all hippy free-love folk, and her mom and dad will spend the evening educating me on how gays are people too. Either way, if it gets her to shut up…

'Fine.' I say, 'I'll come over Friday night. But we need to fake break up by then, okay?'

'Deal. And, until then, I'm going to forget this conversation happened. Let's go.' She grabs my hand and drags me to the choir room.

As we get in, Mr. Schue nods at me in reassurance and I guess we're okay. He's already had another stern word with me and arranged extra Glee practices for the guys as punishment.

'Right, guys.' He says, very calmly. 'I've decided to put this week's shenanigans behind us and move on. I've got in my hand the competition for sectionals next month!' A chorus of '_oooh'_s rises up between us.

'Who're the teams?' Rachel asks, whipping out her notebook.

Mr. Schue tears open the envelope and says 'Drumroll please, Finn!' to which Finn obliges.

He pulls out the paper and we all lean forward slightly, 'First, a place called 'Jane Addams Academy,'

Mercedes gives a laugh. 'Jane Addams? That's a half-way house for girls just getting out of juvie!' Mr. Schue frowns at her but reads on.

'And secondly,' he says, 'The acapella choir from the all-boys private school in Westerville: The Dalton Academy Warblers!'

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	7. Mash Up

_**[Apologies for the re-upload, I'm having some trouble with the site and accidentally deleted the whole chapter, welp.]**_

**THIS STORY IS NOT DEAD. **Ahem. Okay, I'm sorry it's been...I don't even know how long it's been since I updated this, but it is most certainly _not_ abandoned, and I intend for future updates to be much_, much_ swifter. My apologies. **  
**

**Rating:** M for swearing.

**Warnings: **None, really, other than swearing. And possibly bad writing. Please feel free to point out any mistakes ;D**  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, Glee would be on after 9 and Kurt would be having much more sex.

**Notes: **Okay, first off, since I'm following canon and the opposing teams aren't mentioned again for a while, so you're going to have to wait a little for the Garglers to come back, m'kay?

Secondly, I've skipped Throwdown. Why? Because I actually wrote a chapter for it, but it was so boring. If it feels like I've missed anything, it's probably because of all the stuff I took out but, ugh, I just need to post this chapter and be done with it before it kills me. I can't _wait_ to move on to the next chapter! XD

So, without further adieu, I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Mash-up**

It's Friday evening and I'm standing here, almost feeling like a real couple, about to meet Rachel's parents. There are butterflies in my stomach and my palms are sweating, and I'm absolutely fucking _terrified_.

Her house is no different from the last time I was here but somehow it's a thousand times more intimidating now. When Rachel lets me in I glance around in terror for five minutes before she laughs and tells me to calm down.

She pulls me into the kitchen and I see two men standing over a bag of Chinese food. I'd told Rachel what I wanted beforehand so she could order for when I got here, and we could minimize the awkward in-between time.

One of the men is probably Rachel's dad, and grins up at me, but the other guy…I try to figure out who he is: even if the other guy's not her dad after all, there is no way this guy is because he's…well, he's _black, _which means he can't be an uncle or anything either, so maybe he's just a friend or…

'David, these are my dads.' Rachel says, and I can literally feel my jaw dropping.

Her dads. _Plural_.

Rachel has two dads. Two _gay_ dads.

Well, fuck. That would…actually, yeah, that explains a lot. Like, why she invited me here, why she defended homosexuality…her parents are _gay_.

I know I must look shocked and uncomfortable since her dads glance at each other before smiling and introducing themselves as Leroy and Hiram.

And I stand there looking like an idiot because I seem to have lost the ability to speak. What am I supposed to say? _Hey, Rachel's dads! You're gay and I'm having issues with my sexual identity! Let's be friends!_ Or maybe something more along the lines of _Hey, fancy a challenge? Try and figure out my sexuality for me!_

I settle for a feeble 'hey', and hope I don't look too awkward. I don't succeed. In fact, I don't think I could look any _more_ awkward if I tried.

So we sit and they serve dinner and we chat about Glee club and Rachel's awesomeness and whether I prefer hockey or football. One of her dads starts talking about how he was in the hockey team in High School, and the other jokes about how the only skating he did was figure skating. I laugh, and it's not because I have to. Rachel smiles a lot and rests her shoulder into my side, a comforting weight that reminds me that she understands that this is weird for me. Then we have a light, mocking argument about what film to watch because Hiram wants to watch some French film with subtitles but Leroy teases that I probably don't want to watch a film in another language since I'm a teenage guy, unless they have anything Russian because Karofsky, that's Russian right?

So I chuckle and admit that whilst my family was originally Russian, all I know is _hello,_ _goodbye, can I have a coke please_ and the odd profanity. Rachel makes me ask her for a coke about three times before she can perfectly mimic the words. A couple minutes of DVD flicking later, she announces that we're going to watch The Notebook and her dads readily agree whilst I grin and shrug because I've never seen it.

But, the thing is, it's so _easy._ We haven't talked about sexuality even once. The fact that they're gay hasn't come up at all…it's just like I'm sat at the table with my own family. Completely and utterly normal.

They're _normal_.

This is just an evening spent eating Chinese food and watching The Notebook. Rachel's dads show affection in the way that only two people who've known each other for _so long_ can do, Hiram slight leaning on Leroy's shoulder, Leroy brushing his hair out of his face after he's laughed at something on the screen. When the sad parts come, I don't miss that their hands interlock.

But it's still just an evening spent eating Chinese food and watching The Notebook, and it's probably the calmest I've felt for a long, long time.

And maybe, I think, just maybe Rachel is right. Maybe there is nothing wrong with being gay. Maybe this isn't just a phase; maybe if I _accept _this part of me, I can have a happy ending too.

'Hey, Rachel?' I'm at the door now, fumbling with my keys after saying goodbye to the Berrys. She looks up at me with a faint smile. 'Thanks. For…you know.' Suddenly, my throat seems very dry.

She just nods at me; smile increasing, and I realize for the first time how _powerful_ it can be when someone _doesn't_ say anything. Especially someone like Rachel.

So I don't say anything either, I just nod, and for that moment, I feel everything I want to say just flow between us. I wonder if Rachel really is psychic.

Or maybe, for once, I'm letting someone in.

It's a weird feeling. It feels something like progress.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

The weekend's over and it's Monday. Here we are, just standing next to our lockers, innocently chatting. Well, you're innocently going on about the Sound of Music and I'm standing there feeling slightly guilty because, hey, this shit actually sounds good, and there I've been making fun of it all this time.

Little do I know what's coming up the hallway.

I suddenly feel you tense up next to me and a little squeak escapes your lips. And then it happens.

_Splush. _

Let me describe it to you: first, there's a flash of red. Then, the feeling of ice-cold slush hitting your face at the speed of a train, the pain and the shock and the _sting sting sting_ as the corn syrup gets into your eyes…it's fucking _agony_. Which is totally ridiculous really, because it's just a _slushie._

But you know that scene in Titanic where Leonardo De Caprio describes jumping off the ship and hitting the water, and it being like thousands of daggers or whatever? I always thought it was stupid in the film, but now I believe every word.

And that's not to mention the humiliation, the absolute shame, and the big fucking mess on my letterman jacket.

You just stand there, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

'Are you okay?' You ask gently, once the guy is out of sight. 'I can't believe they would do this.'

Oh, right, yeah, I didn't explain that bit, did I? Shit, I suck at this. Well, basically, Coach Tanaka flipped his shit the other day and said that he was bringing in a new practice, and Finn and I quickly realized that it's specifically timed when Glee club holds theirs. Which doubly sucks for me, because come Hockey season, I'm going to be juggling that particular Glee practice with hockey practice too, so if on the miraculous chance that the football team _do _make it to playoffs, I'd have _three_ practices all at the same time.

Unfortunately, the rest of the football team knows this as well. And then came the threats. Most of the damn team came up to me and told me that if I quit they'd make sure to slushie me so hard I'd be seeing e-numbers for weeks. (I don't even know what that _means, _but I'm guessing what just happened was it.)

Quitting hockey was easier than I expected. I don't have to face the guys directly because we still have a couple months until practice starts. I think maybe I'll join a team out of school, somewhere that is totally separate from all these assholes. I don't know. I mean, I do like playing hockey. Maybe even more than football, sometimes, but honestly, those guys spend every free minute making fun of me for _playing for both teams_ and being in _homo-explosion_, so it's difficult to enjoy myself when I'm around them. Not that the football team aren't assholes too.

I just don't know. Quitting football is different. Being on the football team _means_ something. I may not enjoy the _game_ as much, but being on the team means an immediate ticket to the top of the social pyramid. And considering I'm already weighing down my rep with Glee, I _need_ football to stay on top.

But I _love_ Glee. Okay, getting to spend time with you has something to do with it, I'll admit it. There's more to it than that, though: I've never felt so _relaxed_ before, like finally I've found a technique that works, that keeps me from slipping back to that guy. You know the one I mean: the one who shoves geeks into lockers and laughs along with the homophobic jokes my teammates make.

'The slushie war has commenced.' You say, glancing at me with a worried look on your face. Then you wince, looking down at the ice dripping into my shirt. 'Ew.'

I wish I could say this is the last slushie I'm going to endure this week, but somehow, I doubt it.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'Dude, what are you going to do?' Azimio asks me after practice. We're in the locker-room, changing, an activity I'd much rather be doing alone, but I have a class to get to. The practice ended ever so nicely with Coach Tanaka pulling me aside to remind me (as if yelling at us all on Monday wasn't _enough,) _that the practice tomorrow is _mandatory. _

'I don't know, man.' I groan, pulling my shirt off with some difficulty. 'If I don't turn up to that practice, Coach will kick me off the team. But…dude, I really like being in Glee club. I know that's sad or whatever, but I actually feel like I'm accomplishing something over there, you know?'

'…Well, I think it's stupid.' Azimio teases, and I punch him in the arm. He grins for a moment, before his face turns serious and his voice drops lower. 'But, honestly? You should do what makes you happy. Even if it means we end up losing even worse than we are now. Don't tell the other guys I said that.'

'And Hudson?'

Azimio falls quiet. This is a taboo subject. It's not like I expect Azimio to stop his ill-treatment of the Glee kids, or rather, of Finn, just because I'm friends with him now. After all, he has a reputation to maintain, even if mine is in tatters. 'He's the quarterback, man.' he sighs, and I nod slowly. 'I'm not going to be able to call off the other guys.'

'Just promise me you won't join in, okay?' Azimio raises his eyebrows. 'Z, please. If he quits Glee club, we're screwed.'

Azimio lets out a groan, 'I'm sorry, dude. You know I can't do that.' I nod again, understanding, and am about to say something, when –

'Hello, boys.'

Oh, dear god, _no._

You prance in, changed out of your uniform into a lovely combination of skinny jeans and a jacket that's a mash of pink, blue and white. I saw you leave a little while ago, since I've noticed you avoid changing with us when there are more than a few people here. I guess you went to a bathroom stall or something, or to the girls' locker room (are you even allowed to do that?) Either way, you're now back in front of us in a whirl of bright color, and I'm not sure if your outfit looks good or hurts my eyes.

'I know you've all been informed of the choice us Glee kids are being forced to make.' You announce. About a dozen half-naked teenage boys grab for towels and shirts, but you continue, oblivious. 'I'm sure it's obvious where my loyalties lie, but I thought it only fair if I let you know that I'm leaving the football team. It has been honorable serving with you, gentlemen.'

With that, a glance in my direction and a slight smile, you flounce off again. When you're gone, the room bursts into angry murmurs, with the odd side-glance in my direction. I let out a noise of derision, and grab my bag, ready to leave, and Azimio follows me out of the room without another word.

Things go even more downhill from there. As soon I as enter the hallway commences slushie of the week, number two.

First I feel the sting. Then I blink wildly and splutter as blue slush drips down my face. Azimio curses, and once I've wiped the ice out of my eyes, I realize why.

Mullets, mullets, everywhere.

'So, Karofsky. We heard you're ditching us for the football team _and_ Lullaby Lees? Thought we'd show you exactly what we thought of that.' Scott Cooper is sneering at me, and it's hard to look intimidating in return when covered in corn syrup.

My brain hasn't quite recovered from the shock yet, but I manage to grind out something along the lines of 'What of it, Scotty? Hurt I chose the football team over you?'

'Hardly.' Scotty replies, but there's a certain tension to his voice. 'Not like we need you anyway. The fag-ball team can have you.'

'Screw you, Cooper!' Azimio shouts from beside me, and then after a moment continues with a sneer, 'You and your Puck-heads are _nothing!'_

'Yeah, well at least we won more than one match last year, Adams.'

I can't help but let out a snort. 'More like I've won them for you, Cooper. Good luck without me.' And with that, I whirl around and storm back into the locker room, ignoring the few teammates who are still in there.

Screw the guys snickering as I walk past them. Screw being on time for calculus. Screw it all.

I ignore everyone as I strip down again, turning the shower scalding hot. The remaining ice melts almost immediately and I scrub at it, desperate to get clean. Five minutes later, the room has emptied, but I keep my head under the hot water, trying to hide the tears streaming down my face.

'You're missing calculus.'

It's your voice that breaks me out of my trance. I don't look back, since I know it's you. Instead, I dip my head again, and grind out: 'Screw calculus.'

'You like calculus.' Your voice is smooth and calm.

It's around about now that I realize that you're in the same room as me whilst I'm naked and, fuck, please say you're not standing close enough to see me.

'Why are you watching me shower?' I choke out, both desperate to change the subject and find out how close you are.

'My back is turned, I promise.' I glance over my shoulder, and you're not lying. 'I saw what happened, are you okay? That seemed even more painful than the first time.'

'I'm fine.' I say, trying not to sound nervous.

'Is that why you're having your second shower in thirty minutes?'

'I…god, it's…' I can feel my voice breaking, and I know you must have realized I'm crying by now.

'It's what?'

'It's so _humiliating! _ I don't know if I can _do_ this, Kurt! I don't know if I can go through this every day. I just want things back the way they were, back when people would move out of my way in the halls, and the guys wouldn't talk behind my back and call me names and…_fuck!' _I break off as I realize I'm both ranting and sobbing. The room is quiet.

'Then quit.' Your voice rings out, clear and seemingly nonchalant.

'What?'

'Quit Glee Club.' you repeat, 'If it means that much to you to be popular, quit Glee club. Don't come to practice tomorrow, go to Football.' I say nothing. 'We'll understand. It's not easy, being one of us. If you have a chance for something better, you should go for it. We won't hate you for that.'

'We?' I say, 'What about you?' I speak so quietly that I think my voice may be lost in the sounds of rushing water.

But your silence isn't because you didn't hear me. After a few moments, you sigh. 'I want what's best for you, David. We all do.' A pause, 'Just…remember, if you quit Glee, I'll still be here for you. Even if you don't want to be seen in public with me…I'll still be your friend.'

I don't look back, even as your footsteps quieten, and the door closes behind you.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

It's 3:28pm and I've walked back and forth from the locker room and the choir room four times. I haven't reached either door yet, before I turn around at walk to the other. Slung over one shoulder is my letterman jacket, and in my hand is a pile of sheet music.

I'm a walking paradox.

One minute, I'm ready to quit the football team, forsake any smidgen of popularity I have left, the next I want to run into that locker room and hear the people who I used to think were my friends cheer and laugh and welcome me back with pats on the back.

I think about you telling me that you'll be my friend whether I stay with Glee or not. I think about Azimio standing up for me, and telling me that I should do what I love.

You tell me to quit Glee. He tells me to quit football. Both of you want the opposite of what you're saying.

You want me to stay in Glee and he wants me to stay in football. And you're both my friends. But Azimio is my best friend and I love him like a brother. I don't love you like a brother. I love you like…I don't love you. I don't _think_ I love you.

So why exactly am I walking into the choir room right now?

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The second attack comes the day after I blow off the practice for Glee. I'd made my choice: Glee over football. I'm walking along the corridor with you, talking about our latest Glee assignment. We've both failed epically in trying to think of a song to go with _Bust A Move_. Then I see Finn walking up the hall and my world turns purple.

And so here I am, getting slushied again, by _Finn, _of all people. Welcome to the new world order, Karofsky.

But then he lifts up his other hand, grasping _another_ cup.

'What the fuck do you think you're doing, Hudson?' I yell, slush dripping down my shirt, and before I know it, he's up against the lockers with my hand on his throat.

I really need to stop doing this.

'Dude!' He groans, and I let up slightly, realizing that I have him pinned in what could be (rightly) perceived as threatening.

It's one thing to slushie me, but when Hudson's about to give _you_ a slushie facial, that's something else. There is no _way_ I'm letting him do it, even if it means another permanent purple stain on my shirt.

'What are you _doing?'_ I repeat and he glances towards you and then back at me.

'The team are going to kick my ass if I don't do it!' Finn whines, staring down at me with an expression of both fear and confusion.

'Dave, _DAVE! Let him go!' _You shriek, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me away. Finn, somehow still clutching the slushie, turns towards you with a pained look on his face. I glare at him.

'If a single drop of that hits Kurt I'll _kill_ you, Hudson!' I growl, but you elbow me.

'Dave!' You snap. 'Shut _up.'_

'Dude, he's about to slushie you!'

'And he has every reason to do so. I quit the team for Glee club too. And I'm wearing this outfit for a reason, remember?' You motion down to the see-through anorack thing that I'd been wondering about earlier. I had assumed it was just another fashion statement, until I realized that all of Glee club was wearing less fashionable versions of the same kind. Then it turned out that there had been a message on facebook that the football team was out to get us today and that we needed to band together and wear waterproofs.

If I spent more time social networking and less time attempting to do calculus homework, I'd be dry right now. Screw you, high school.

'Yeah, but your _hair!' _I wince just thinking about it, and you do too, but you puff yourself up and shake your head.

'Just call me a martyr.'

'Kurt, what–' I start, but you cut me off haughtily.

'That slushie is meant for _me_, David. I won't let you endure it for me.'

'Dude, I'm already covered in ice–'

'That's not the _point._ You quit the team so you got slushied, and now it's my turn.' You turn to face Finn, face set, but he's hesitating now.

'I…I can't, Kurt…I mean, I know how picky you are about what products you use on your skin.' He groans, and I shoot him a glare.

I don't have the nerve to touch him again since you told me not to, but instead I just growl 'Don't you _dare,_ Hudson!'

'But…damnit, man! If I don't do it the guys on the team are gonna kick the crap out of me.'

'Well, we can't have that.' You say, and suddenly you've seized the cup from Finn and are holding it out in your hands.

'Wh- what are you doing?'

'It's called taking one for the team.' You say ominously, before throwing the slushie in your own face.

Hudson stands there, stunned. You splutter and wince, and wipe the slush out of your eyes. 'Now get out of here,' You tell him, 'and take some time to think whether any of your friends on the football team would have done that for you.'

Then, when he's gone, you throw up your hands. 'Someone get me to a day spa, _stat!'_

And I'm just standing there thinking what the heck I should do; when the girls seize you and frog march you to the girls' bathroom. I stare after them for a second, but then Mercedes' hand clasps around my wrist and yanks me in after them.

I immediately freak out and shut my eyes, but after a burbled resistance and a worried glance behind me, I give in and look around the room.

So this is what it's like on the other side.

I've never been in the girls' room before, at least not since I was a kid and too young to go to the bathroom without my mom. Puckerman's offered me a glance through his secret girls' bathroom peephole, but I've always turned him down. And now, here I stand. And hey, it's true what everyone's always said, it's so much cleaner in here than ours.

I'm kind of just standing awkwardly, though, since Mercedes and the other girls are currently washing the grape slushie from your eyes and cooing over you. Then, just as I start edging towards the door, Tina stares pointedly at me. 'We need to talk.' She says, ominously.

Tina's talk turns out to be more of a curious probing into the nature of our friendship. There are a lot of questions about friendship and football players and where my loyalties lie.

'Have you really quit the team?'

'Uh, well, I was kicked out for not turning up to practice. But, yeah. I have.'

'And your intentions towards Kurt are?' This one makes me choke on air.

'What? No! We're just friends! I'm not _gay.'_ My voice drops very low on the last word, and I can't help but glance around.

When I look back at Tina, I can't tell if she's still glaring, or if that's just her eyes, but she seems to be less angry. 'Fine.' She says, sounding slightly calmer and then walks over to where you're drying yourself off with a towel. 'Are you okay, Kurt?' She rejoins the girls as they fuss about.

A few minutes later, the girls are kissing you on the cheeks and telling you how _brave_ you are, before they start to leave for lunch.

'You coming?' Mercedes, asks, and you shoot her a smile.

'I'll meet you there later.' Mercedes gives you a knowing grin in return, and then leaves, waving. You turn to me and say, bashfully: 'Uh, sorry they didn't really help you out.'. 'You're not an honorary girl like me, I suppose.' You let out an awkward little laugh that I echo. 'Um. Do you want me to…'

'Oh, no, I'm fine!' I insist quickly, then, pushing the girls' bathroom door open a crack and peeking out to check that the coast is clear, I swiftly scoot to the boys' room across the hall, you following behind me.

I practically throw my head in the sink, scrubbing at my face with my hands and it takes me a minute or so to catch your disapproving look in the mirror. 'What?' I ask, and you shake your head.

'Please tell me this isn't how you usually clean slushies off.' You say, looking vaguely horrified. I shrug and you wince at me. 'Well I suppose it's quicker than jumping in the shower.'

'What else am I supposed to do?' I murmur, continuing my scrubbing and trying not to just smear the grape flavored ice everywhere.

'Did you not just _see_ how we meticulously washed all the slush off in a manner that _doesn't_ cause permanent damage to my face? And by the way, if you keep doing that your skin will turn purple.' I stop, and you survey me for a second, before rolling your eyes.

'Here.' Before I know it, you've whipped a tissue out and moved towards me. And I've stopped breathing. Brilliant.

Oxygen, Dave, oxygen. It's that thing that keeps people alive.

You're dabbing my face gently with a tissue, scooping up the last of the grape flavored slush and, with a distasteful look on your face, dumping it quickly in the trash.

'Now, we get a moist towelette and make sure your skin is clean.'

'But you just wiped the slush off…'

'And if you leave it now you'll have a sticky residue, is that what you want?' Your raise your eyebrows and I glare at you.

'No need to be so patronizing.' I grunt, and then sigh. 'Oh, go on, get me a…whatever you said.'

'Here, let me just…'

I don't hear the rest of the sentence because, wait, you're not passing me anything, you're actually wiping my face with some wet-wipe thing and _whoa whoa whoa…_I think my brain just short-circuited.

You run the wipe along my forehead and hairline, smoothing back my hair with the other hand, gently. Then your hand circles my head and grips the back of it to keep my face steady as you bring the wipe down to my nose and cheeks. You're so fucking _close_ I can feel your warm breath contrasting the coolness of the damp paper. You're staring right into my face with an intense look of concentration, softly wiping my skin in circular motions.

'Close your eyes.' You say, and I don't think I'm imagining your voice being cracked and breathless. So I close my eyes and you run the towelette over the lids softly and carefully. Way too slowly, too; I'm sure they don't need this much time, but I'm in darkness and I can't see you, so really, I don't know _what _you're doing.

Except, I can feel your breath on my lips now, right _on_ the lips, the way it would feel if you were practically pressed against them. And for the briefest second, I swear I can nearly _feel_ your lips push against mine, our skin making the tiniest bit of contact.

But then there's a rush of cold air and all contact is gone. I open my eyes and you're leaning back, you must have moved pretty fast to be that far away.

'Kurt?' I say, feigning ignorance. It works, I can see you physically relaxing. 'You alright?'

'Uh, yeah.' You smile at me, and lean back. 'I…um. We're nearly done. Just…just a little more, 'kay?'

I nod, and pretend not to notice that you're breathing hard and your face is flushed. Especially because you're running the towelette along my jaw and neck and I can't even begin to hide the fact that this is turning me on. It's hard enough not to moan, when your eyes are fixed on my lips like that and you're bringing the towelette up to gently dap at them. The taste of soap is horrible but I can feel your fingers through the thin fibers, brushing against my lips and making them tingle.

'You have really nice skin.' You say, pulling back at last. I resist the urge to groan at the loss of contact. 'Well. You could do with some serious moisturizing, but considering I'm assuming you only wash it with water-'

'And soap.' I cut in, grinning bashfully at the face you pull.

'And…good god, _soap. _Considering that, you have really nice skin. Here.' Now you reach into your bag and hand me a bottle. 'Twice a day, morning _and_ night. And an extra time after every practice, do you have any idea how much football dries out your skin? Not to even _mention_ the damage you must do to it on the ice-rink.'

'Neither of those are a problem any more.' You look a little embarrassed there, like you'd forgotten. 'Okay, okay! I get the idea. Dry skin, moisturizer.'

'Twice a day, and-'

'Extra after practice. Got it.' I sigh, 'That is, if I ever get back on the team.' You smile at me awkwardly, nod, and we both stand up in unison. 'Um, I'd better get back before the next class.'

'Yeah.'

'Uh, Kurt?' You turn your head to look over your shoulder. 'Thanks.'

I ignore the flutter in my stomach as your face breaks out into a smile. 'No problem, David. Think of it as recompense for staying with Glee club.'

Well, if that's the kind of reward I get, I'm _never_ quitting Glee, I think as I try to make my heart stop beating like I've downed ten Red Bulls.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

The good news comes in the form of Finn bearing slushies. For a moment, I think we're about to be drowned in ice, but he's grinning like a maniac, so either something good has happened or he's been at the Vitamin D again.

'Coach wants you guys to come back.' He announces, and I feel a grin break out on my face. There are cheers all around and Puck grabs me by the shoulder into a bro-hug.

'And the slushies?' I ask, as Mercedes grabs a few and passes them around.

'My welcome back gift for the club.'

'Thanks, Finn. They're delicious.' Rachel pipes up, talking a sip through the straw, and you glance at me with raised eyebrows. I try not to laugh.

'And loaded with empty calories.' You cut in, passing me a slushie. 'You know why they call them slushies, don't you? Because your butt looks like one if you have too many of them.' Don't think I don't see you glance down there, Kurt Hummel. For a second I think you're going to pinch my ass before I realize I'm being stupid.

There's laughing and cheering and I take a gulp of my slushie, glad that for once it's in a cup rather than on my face.

'I am sorry to report that we've been remiss about completing out assignment this week.' Artie admits, ashamedly.

'Yeah, none of us could find a good groove for _Bust A Move.'_ Mercedes says with a grin and a shrug.

'And I personally feel like a failure.' Artie finishes, and we all laugh again, including Schue. He doesn't look disappointed in us at all. Instead, he smiles and looks sympathetic.

'That's okay, guys. Sometimes things don't work out.' He tells us, and somehow I think this is supposed to be the lesson of the week.

'Sorry about the thing about the wedding song, too.' Finn says, and Schue looks a little confused. 'Coach was kind of yelling about it.'

'Oh, right. Well, as I said, sometimes things don't work out – sometimes you just can't make two songs go together.' He suddenly grips his head and groans 'Brainfreeze! I can't imagine getting hit in the kisser with one of these.'

'You've never been hit with a slushie before, Mr. Schue?' Artie asks, and there's a simultaneous light bulb over the Glee Club's heads. We move forward together.

Schue realizes what we're thinking and gives a laugh. 'Alright guys, we're a team, bring it on, give it your best shot!'

Thirteen slushies hit him in the face. (Well, twelve. Rachel's misses horrendously.)

He's covered in purple slush, but laughing and holding his cup out. We laugh in unison and cheer whilst Mr. Schue yells, 'Alright! From the top!'

We give him some time to clean off as we practice runs, and Puck turns to ask Finn what he was talking about with the wedding songs.

'Well, you know there was that rumor about Coach Tanaka and Miss Pillsbury getting married? Apparently it's true.' Finn says, drinking one of the remaining slushies that weren't thrown in Schue's face. 'And Tanaka-san wanted _The Thong Song_ as their wedding song, but Miss Pillsbury wanted some other song, and they asked Mr. Schue to mash them up or something-'

'Riveting story.' Santana says, sarcastically, but Finn ignores her.

'But he couldn't do it.'

'I guess we're not the only ones who failed our mash up assignments this week, then.' Mercedes says and we all murmur in agreement.

Then someone changes the subject to some other rumor, and I zone out. Rachel starts complaining that we're not warming up, so starts belting out runs and I walk over to where you're sitting.

'Do you think so too?' I ask you, and I can't look directly at you, so I stare at your hands.

'Think what?' You're looking for something in your – is that a woman's handbag? – but I can see you turning your head towards me out of the corner of my eye. I keep my own head down.

'That two things as different as that can't go together?' I'm not talking about the songs any more. But you know that, right? I'm talking about _us._ 'I mean, Finn was saying about that mash up thing Schue was trying to do.'

'No.' you say, and I let myself look up at you. 'I mean, Schue was _never_ going to be able to mash those two songs up, but that's because the Thong Song is _stupid_ and anyone who wants that as their wedding song will be alone _forever._ But sometimes difference is good. Different things can complement each other, you know?'

I nod slowly, and try to ignore the itching in my eyes. You smile, and continue, 'I mean, look at what I've got on.' Then you motion down to your outfit, and I nod, pretending to understand your point. You're wearing a shocking array of colors today. I think that's what you're referring to, anyway.

'Sometimes contrast is good. Too much of the same thing gets boring after a while, don't you think?'

I don't know. I mean, really, I'm the kind of guy that has the same shirt in five different colors. And most of those colors are almost identical shades of blue. Besides Glee, there's nothing outstanding about my life: I go to school, I go to practice, I come home, I watch TV with my dad, I sleep. I'm just an ordinary teenager. I'm just…a whole lot of the same thing.

But I don't think that's what you meant.

'I've never met anyone as different to me as you, Kurt.' I mumble, and you raise an eyebrow at me.

'Exactly.' You say, and suddenly your eyes are averted. 'And we get along. So there you go.'

'Thanks, Kurt.'

'So you needn't worry about fighting between Glee and football. I mean, Tanaka-san already said that you can be in both, right? So stop worrying!' You look happy, carefree. I groan internally.

I kind of get the feeling we're _both_ missing something here. So I smile back, compliment you on your outfit and change the subject swiftly until Mr. Schue comes back.

And maybe you're right. Well, I manage to balance Glee and football semi-successfully and you have your multicolored clothing. And if we both seem to get slushied for it, so what? Bring it on.

It's open season.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	8. Wheels

Right, so I'm home for a few days, so I can _finally_ update this. Ugh, living without internet is slowly killing me. Sorry it took so long, but hopefully the next chapter should be up shortly as well. _Ballad_ isn't a long'un but this is over 10,000 words, woo!**  
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**Rating:** M for swearing.

**Warnings: **None, really, other than swearing and homophobia. Oh, and drug abuse? Kind of, I guess. **  
**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, Glee would be on after 9 and Kurt would be having much more sex.

**Notes: **I can't thank you guys enough for all your support - you guys keep me inspired! I hope you don't mind how frustratingly slowly Kurt and Dave are moving but I promise you they _are_ moving somewhere!**  
**

Enjoy!

* * *

**Wheels**

There's no missing the look on your face when Mr. Schue mentions the _Wicked_ song. I know you love _Wicked_, I mean, you're always singing the songs under your breath, and when that one time I used the iPod shuffle you keep as a spare, it was filled with _only_ _Wicked_ songs.

And then he immediately gives the song to Rachel.

Now don't get me wrong, Rachel's a cool girl. She's my friend and she's (against all odds) managed not to tell anyone my secret yet, so I have a lot of respect for her. But seeing your face fall like that makes me want to punch her in the nose. Well, after I punch Mr. Schue. Not that I would ever hit a girl. So just Mr. Schue then.

Speaking of Schue, he's now rambling on about Artie. Something about having no money for the bus and a bake sale? Sounds cool to me, I love baking. I bake _awesome_ cakes, and according to Azimio, my hash brownies are legendary enough to make up for the lameness of the hobby. Apparently the rest of the club doesn't share my enthusiasm, though, so I keep to myself as everyone shoots Schue down.

'I find recipes confusing.' Brittany admits, and I stifle a laugh. Oh, _Brittany. _

But all of this is a momentary distraction. A few seconds later I glance at you again and your face is still downcast. Then the bell rings, practice ends and everyone starts to leave. 'Kurt!' I call to you. You're practically running out of the room and I grab your shoulder to get your attention.

'Dave? Oh, hi.' Your eyes are slightly watery and that's when I realize what you need to do.

'Fight her for the solo.' I say, and then you pause for a second and nod, eyes ablaze with determination.

So, next Glee practice you stand up, face set, fists clenched and say, 'I want to audition for the _Wicked_ solo.'

You're greeted with hushed giggles and gasps, and Rachel's horrified face. I flash you a grin, but you don't see it.

'Kurt, there's a High F in it.' Schue says, and my grin drops. The room takes on an eerie silence for a second.

'That's well within my range.' You counter, but I already know what Schue's about to say.

'Well, I think Rachel's going to be fine for the female lead, but I'm happy to have you try out something else, Kurt. And I'll make sure it has a killer high note.'

Everyone starts muttering '_too bad'_ and '_he tried'_, and before I know it, it's happening: I feel a surge of anger rush through me and lose utter control of my body.

'Mr. Schue, that's kind of unfair!'

Oh damn. I wasn't supposed to say that. I wasn't supposed to say anything. Why am I talking?

'Dave?' Mr. Schue asks, and everyone is staring at me.

'Actually, it's discrimination.' I continue, because my brain seems to have stopped working and…well, I might as well go the whole hog now. 'You're practically saying Kurt can't sing the song because he's a guy.'

'I just think that the judges-'

'Would probably appreciate a different take on the song.' I cut him off and immediately regret it. His face is stony and stern, and I know I've lost.

'Rachel is singing the solo, David.' Schue says firmly and raises his hands. 'That's the last I want to hear of it. Anyway, I wanted to say something to you guys…' I stop giving him my full attention and instead lean over and squeeze your shoulder. You glance back at me and offer a teary smile. I mouth _sorry_ and you just shake your head and look down at your lap.

'…And to pay for the bus, we're having a bake sale.' Oh, great, seems like Schue is being extra stubborn today. Not that I mind, but I'm already pissed off, so another reason to be resentful is welcome.

Then he drops the bombshell, 'Each of you is going to spend three hours a day in a wheelchair. Oh, oh, oh. And we're doing a wheelchair _number._'

He has _got _to be kidding.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

I can't begin to explain how difficult it is to work a wheelchair without practice. I mean, you'd think all you have to do is push the damn wheels but _nooo,_ it doesn't quite work like that. Not to mention that sometimes it just veers to the side for absolutely no reason at all and you end up slamming into a locker, or a door frame, or Azimio.

'_Dude!_ That is the third time you've hit me with that thing!' He whines, kicking me in the wheel. I try to dodge and fly into a locker.

'I can't help it, man! This thing isn't easy to control, you know!' And now I can't get it to go left. '_Argh!_'

'Tell me again why you're in a wheelchair.' Azimio asks, raising his eyebrows as he grabs the back of the wheelchair and steers me out of the wall.

'Because Schue is making us use them for three hours a day. To make us appreciate how much harder Artie has it than all of us. And to make us do the bake sale.' I reply, probably mostly nonsensical.

'Bake sale?'

'Don't even ask.'

'…bake sale?' he repeats. I groan and give in.

'We don't have enough money for a handicapable bus for Sectionals. So we're having a bake sale to get some.' I explain, rubbing my temple now that my hands are free.

Azimio, being Azimio, grins like the fucking Cheshire cat. 'Dude, that's an awesome idea.'

Of course he thinks it's an awesome idea. Well, at least _someone _agrees with me. 'You're the only one who thinks so.'

'I'm the only one who likes cake?' I resist making a joke about his weight because I know he'll just make one back and I'm not in the mood to get self-conscious right now.

'Seems like it.' I shrug, 'Well, actually, I thought it was a good idea too.'

'That's because you make damn good cakes.' He points out, and I try to elbow him but can't reach.

'A skill that you promised not to mention in public.' My voice is low, but he just laughs at me like I'm joking.

'Give me a free cake and I won't.'

I narrow my eyes at him, acting haughty, 'If I give you a freebie, will you promise to buy one as well?'

'Sure.' He grins then with one hand, clutches his heart as if he's pained. 'But only because I'm such a good friend.'

I laugh and go to slap him on the back, but miss and hit his ass. _'Dude!'_ He yells, glancing around us in alarm, but after a second bursts into laughter. 'Try that again and I'll kick you in the nads.' My face goes bright red and I try to splutter an apology.

'It was an acc-'

'Shut your mouth, white boy.' He says, but he's still laughing. 'You owe me a free cake.'

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The next Glee practice, I roll in and nearly run over one of the band guys' feet. The guy jumps about a foot up in the air as I apologize, red-faced again. Then, as if I wasn't humiliated enough, I see you watching me from the other side of the room. You're not laughing, though, which is either impressive or a little worrying. I wheel myself over to you.

'My dad's here.' You say, 'He's yelling at Mr. Schue about not giving me a shot at the _Wicked_ solo.'

'Awesome. Your dad is cool.'

'My dad is _angry_.' You look worried, but also really gloomy, like you've already given up. 'He…gets defensive of me.'

'He cares about you. A lot. And, hey, hopefully this will work. Between you and me, I'd much rather hear you sing the solo than listen to Rachel for the millionth time. I never get to hear you sing alone.' I really mean it, too. I've heard you plenty of times doing the harmonies, but even then, Schue makes you sing quieter than the rest of us because your voice is so easy to pick up in a group.

'Thanks, Dave.' You say earnestly, and your face transforms as you smile up at me. 'And, um, thanks for standing up for me last practice. It meant a lot to me.' And just at that minute, Mr. Schue comes in, glances at you and nods, crossing the room to talk to Rachel. I can't hear what they're saying but judging by her scowl, Rachel isn't happy.

'So you're _giving_ him my part?' I catch, and then Mr. Schue walks to the middle of the room and addresses all of us. He tells us that you're both auditioning for the part and that _we're_ going to judge you. Rachel immediately kicks up a fuss about how it's going to be a popularity contest rather than a test of skill. You shush her.

'Mr. Schue, if I may?' You say, wheeling next to Mr. Schue. 'We all know I'm more popular than Rachel. And I dress better than her.' You glance over at Rachel with a look of distaste and then continue. 'Raise your right hand. Your _right_ hand, Brittany.' We all glance over at the cheerleader who puts her left hand down and sticks her right one up with a wide grin and a bashful apology. 'Repeat after me. I promise to vote for the person who sings the songs better.'

'I promise to vote for the person who sings the songs better.' We chant, and when beside me I hear Mercedes say 'of course, _you!'_ I can't help but grin.

And then, after a brilliantly bitchy 'it's _on!'_ you whirl your chair and start to leave as the bell tolls. I follow you quickly, catching up easily. Thank god for well-trained upper body strength. I knew being a football player had its upsides.

'Hey, Kurt.' I call, and you look back, momentarily confused by the chair getting in the way, then swinging round slightly and giving a nervous smile. 'You're going to be great.' I reassure you, 'Don't worry.'

'I'm not worried.' you lie. I quirk an eyebrow. 'Okay, fine. I'm worried. It's _Rachel._ If her voice was as abrasive as her personality and wardrobe choice I'd be fine, but we all know she's the most talented out of all of us…' you pause. 'Much as it pains me to admit it, I don't know if I can beat her.'

'You can.' I say, confidently. And I really mean it: even though Rachel is probably the most technically talented member of the group, and even though she wants everything so enthusiastically, you want this one _more._ Not to mention, you sing like a fucking angel, though I don't say that out loud, to avoid sounding creepy.

'Do you…' You swallow nervously, 'want to come to my house and practice after school? I was going to stay here and use the piano but…well, if we go to mine, we could watch a film after or something. I mean, you said you wanted to hear me sing and I could…I could really use your help.'

I swallow too, mimicking you unconsciously. 'Tonight? I…sure. Yeah, that sounds great.' Your face lights up and you smile at me.

You invited me to your house. Alone, no girls, just _me. _My stomach flutters like I've swallowed a bat. You're going to sing to me, and we're going to watch a film together. If it were two other people, this could almost be considered a _date._ Not that I think that's what this is. I mean, it's just a friend helping out another friend. In a friendly kind of way. Yeah.

'Thanks! I'll meet you by your locker later, then.' I wave you goodbye, trying not to grin like I've won the lottery.

Azimio comes up from behind and asks me why I look so fucking happy, and I just smile mysteriously at him and carry on wheeling.

'Freak.' He mutters, but he still grabs the wheelchair and steers me away as I nearly run over Jacob Ben Israel's foot.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

Three hours later, I'm sat in your living room, and if I thought being at Rachel's house was scary, I was wrong. It's not like I haven't been here before, I just haven't been here _alone_ with you before. Your dad must be working late or something.

'Do you want something to eat? We won't be having dinner for a couple of hours, so if you want I can make something.' You say casually and I shrug in return. I am kind of hungry, but I don't want to look like a fat-ass or anything.

'How about some toast?' You suggest, and you sound almost like you're egging me on for something. Maybe you sense my discomfort.

'Yeah, that sounds great. Do you have peanut butter?' The tension seems to ebb away slightly as I say it, and I see your shoulders relaxing.

'Of course. Let me go stick some bread in the toaster.' You return about half a minute later, still looking a little nervous. 'I, um. I haven't quite finished yet, so it may be a little off. And, um, there's this note at the end.'

'The one Mr. Schue was talking about?'

'Yeah.' You seem defensive and tense. 'That one. It's pretty high, so I might not make it.' I've never heard you sound so unconfident in your skills before, you always seem so sure of yourself. I guess even you're insecure sometimes.

'You said it was well within your range.' I say, teasingly, with a smile tugging on my lips. I figure if I treat it as a joke, you're more likely to loosen up.

'Well, it is!' You sniff, amused and slightly less nervous now. 'But it's hard to hit, so cut me a little slack. I might not hit it at first.' I resist commenting on the innuendo in that, and instead give a reassuring smile as you start the music.

_'Something has changed within me…'_

God, your voice is beautiful. I sit and listen to you with wide, staring eyes. You breeze over the high notes of the chorus, smiling slightly as you do so. I've heard this song a couple of times before, so I know how it's supposed to go, but you make it so _personal_, like the song suddenly has meaning it didn't have before. Kind of makes me want to see _Wicked_ so I can understand the _actual _context.

'You sound amazing.' I say once it's done, because it's true. 'Unless Rachel has something _huge_ up her sleeve, you have no chance of losing.'

'Thank you.' You say breathlessly, and we fall into silence for a while.

'Kurt.' I eventually break it, before immediately forgetting what I was going to say. You eyes are light blue today, brought out by the sky-blue color of your shirt. And suddenly, I want nothing more than to be able to lean in and kiss you, to hold you tight and tell your not to worry because it will all be okay, you sound beautiful and you're amazing and perfect.

But that would be inappropriate, so instead I grin and pat you awkwardly on the shoulder, whilst clearing my throat. 'You're gonna be great.' You smile, and then there's an even more awkward moment as your face drops to a serious expression.

'Dave, I need to ask you something.' I can tell it's important because your eyes are darting all over the place. There's a long pause. Then, you take a deep breath, your shoulders hunching slightly. 'Dave, do you–'

And then the phone rings.

We both whirl around to face the source of the noise and then simultaneously notice the smoke drifting out of the kitchen. You squeak in panic.

'Oh my god, the _toast!'_ You run towards the kitchen whilst also waving frantically at the phone. 'Can you get that? That phone-line is connected to dad's garage, so it could be a customer. And I said I'd answer it 'cause one of his workers just left.' You babble, your voice fading rapidly as you enter the kitchen.

I pick up the phone, trying to remember what Kurt's dad's business is called. 'Hummel tire and lube?' I say uncertainly, but it doesn't seem to matter.

All I hear is a deafening silence, and then four words: 'Your son's a fag.'

To describe what thoughts run through my head would take much longer than the length of time I can remember them. I swear my brain goes into hyper drive or something because it's working at a speed that would be extremely helpful during English class. So many questions run through my head and I don't even know if I know any of the answers or even who they're addressed to.

Who the hell _was_ that on the phone? Why would anyone be that cruel? What if it was your dad that answered? What if you'd answered? Did this happen a lot? Had you ever said anything? What would I do if they said that to me? …what if it had happened to _me_, to my dad? What would _I_ say?

Fuck, too many questions. My head hurts, and there are two feelings: first, the feeling that I've been dropped into an ice bath. Everything just goes _cold,_ like one of those Dementor things from Harry Potter has turned up. But then there's this warmth, no, this raging _heat _that I know only too well because it's the feeling that clouds over my head and makes me do stupid things that get me sent to Anger Management classes.

Things like ripping the phone chord out of the wall and practically throwing it across the room.

'_David!'_ You screech, running in upon hearing the phone clatter onto the ground. You're holding a towel in your hand. 'What are you _doing?'_

And then my brain just stops. Every panicked thought, every inch of anger just ebbs away, every bad feeling disappearing as quickly as they started. Unfortunately, every cohesive thought dissolves along with them.

'Uh…wrong number?' I say, trying to look innocent, but failing. 'I…um…I'll pay for that.' But you're staring at me like I'm wearing black pants with brown shoes or whatever's considered a criminal offence in the fashion world.

'Wrong number.' You repeat, and I just shrug and try not to look like I'm lying. 'You're lying.'

'How could you tell?' I groan, giving in. Somehow, you always know, even when I _do_ manage to be less blindingly obvious.

'Well, first of all, it was a terrible lie.' You roll your eyes, then suddenly you're a little redder, and you're not looking at me. 'Plus, you do this thing with your tongue when you're nervous. N-not that I was looking or anything. What was the call?' You change the subject quickly.

I ignore what you said, as well as the fact that my throat is suddenly a little drier. 'It was…' I don't have the heart to come up with a better lie, 'an anonymous call.'

Your reaction is as immediate as it is heartbreaking. 'Oh,' you squeak. 'That's…um. That…it's nothing. Don't worry about it.'

_'Don't worry about it? _Kurt, do you get these calls a lot?'

'Oh, all the time.' You say, and it's the tone of your voice that really gets me. It's casual, as if to say '_it's no problem; I'm used to it.'_ But that's why it's so horrible: it isn't something you should _have _to get used to. I feel like punching a wall right about now.

'Does your dad know about it?' Your eyes widen instantly and you shake your head. _That_ makes sense: I can't see Burt Hummel being the kind of guy to take this lying down. That being said, there have been other pranks too; the pee-balloon incident, the furniture thing and I know you've had your clothes stolen from the locker room at least once, because I've seen you change into the spare outfit you keep in your locker on days I know you haven't been slushied.

'Please don't tell him.' The panic in your voice is obvious. 'I don't want to worry him.'

No, that's not how it's supposed to work. You're not supposed to shoulder everything yourself. You're supposed to let me…let _people_ help you. 'Kurt, you have to tell him! You need to do something about this, it's not right!' I say, trying to speak softly but failing. Your face is set, determined, but your eyebrows are furrowed like you're in pain.

'And what difference would it make, Dave? He'd just get all angry and stressed and it's not worth it, it's not like it would stop them!' You sound a little hysterical now, and I stare you down. 'I don't want him to know. It'll just make things worse.'

'Then, what, you're just going to let it go on? That call was meant for your dad, what makes you think he won't get the next one?'

'I don't know! I…' There's a long pause, 'I don't want to talk about this any more. Let's just forget about it for a while, okay?' I nod and smile faintly.

'Let's make some more toast.' I suggest, 'And maybe stay by the toaster this time.' You offer me a watery smile and without thinking, I squeeze your arm, ignoring how your eyes linger on my hand. Then you scurry off back to the kitchen and we laugh over charred bread, you sing again and we watch TV until your dad gets back. It's tense, yeah, but I avoid him no more than usual, and help you out when you cook some fancy dish in the kitchen for dinner.

Burt Hummel does the usual grill-the-friend thing over the meal, probably encouraged by the fact that I'm over at yours on my own, which would be slightly weird even if I weren't…interested in you. But, still, it's bearable. Your dad is a cool guy; the meal progresses, you pretend to understand as we talk about football, and I pretend to understand when he talks about cars.

The dinner is delicious, of course. I'll have to get the recipe from you, I've been meaning to extend my culinary expertise past baking for a while. It's all just math, anyway, how hard can it be? I help with the dishes when you refuse to let Burt do them, and he goes off to watch _Deadliest Catch_ or something.

'Thanks for not saying anything.' You say, when we're eventually done, and in your room to watch the movie.

'It's okay. I mean…I still think you should tell him, but it's not my place.' You nod and the subject is dropped. You reach over to open the DVD we hired – the first Star Wars (because you haven't seen them, and that's a sin punishable by death as far as I'm concerned.)

'Oh, crap.' I glance over, and the DVD in your hands isn't Star Wars. 'They gave us the wrong disk.' You groan.

'It's not porn, is it?' I joke. It falls flat, I can tell, because you give that nervous, awkward laugh that means you're incredibly uncomfortable. Plus, I don't even want to think about what we'd do if it _were_ porn. I can't exactly see us watching porn together in the near future.

'It's some film called _Incubus?_' You shrug, and then say, 'Sounds like porn to me.' It's an obvious attempt to clear the tension. It doesn't work.

'Uh, let's google it.' I suggest, and you pull out a shiny Mac. Huh, guess I should have known you were one of _those_ people. I think mournfully about my battered old laptop as you google _Incubus_ and then pull a face.

'There is no _way_ I'm watching a 3-out-of-ten horror movie about some busty blonde bimbo. I claim my get out of movie gay card.'

'Get…what?' I echo, genuinely confused.

'Since I'm gay, I'm officially allowed to not like certain movies. Like _Die Hard.' _

'Isn't that kind of stereotypical?' You raise an eyebrow at me. 'Come on, not every gay guy hates _Die Hard._' Let's hope you don't read too much into that.

'Well, _I _do.'

'You don't represent every gay guy, Kurt.' You pull another face and I resist rolling my eyes. 'What do we watch now, then?'

You shrug. 'I have some movies here, but…well, I don't know if you'll like them.' You're probably right. I remember seeing your movie collection before – stuff like _The Sound of Music_ and _The Devil Wears Prada. _Maybe we both need to expand our movie tastes.

'Does _Wicked _have a movie?' I ask out of the blue, and it's the right thing to say – your face lights up like I've just given you the greatest compliment ever.

'I _knew_ I was getting through to you!' You smile at me smugly, 'It doesn't, but there is a stage recording of it on _Youtube,_ if you want to watch some of that? It's a far cry from the real thing but, you know, we should go see it on Broadway some day.' I like how you say _we_ so easily. _Some day_, too, like you're sure that we'll still be together in the future. Together as friends, I mean.

I try not to agree too enthusiastically as you load a badly recorded stage-version of _Wicked_ on youtube, occasionally pausing to laugh over facebook updates. We chat about the latest gossip about Finn and the baby and you fiddle with the playlist settings on the video so we don't have to click on the parts. Then we turn down the lights and sit on your bed to watch as some guy records the live theatre as much as they can without filming the backs of people's heads.

You're asleep on my shoulder in ten minutes.

I think you're probably exhausted from the stress more than anything. It must be getting to you, being the only out gay guy in our school, being constantly harassed. The phone call was a reality-check; I knew you were getting a little bit of hassle - you hide it well, but I've heard my teammates you _faggot_ and _homo_. But this, this is more than that, this is bullying. I desperately want to do something about it, but what can I do without your dad finding out?

I keep watching for another quarter of an hour before my eyes begin to droop too. I know this is probably an insult to the play, but I vow to go see it in Broadway to make up for it. I lean back, feeling your breath on my shoulder and try not to feel like too much of a creep as I let my body relax, sleep washing over me within minutes. My mind swirls with emerald dreams and the sound of your singing.

'...ave…up…late…' a soft voice interrupts my slumber. I ignore it, breathing in deeply and snuggling my cheek into my pillow. It's soft and smells of flowers.

'Um, Dave...?' The voice again. I groan lightly and wrap my arms around the pillow.

'Dave!' This time, it's a squeak. I force my eyes open and am met with the view of a soft blue shirt.

Wait, _shirt?_

'Ack!' is the most intelligible thing I can say as I jump up, releasing you. I had been hugging your whole body and my face had been buried in your shoulder. (Please say I didn't drool…please say I didn't drool.)_ Your_ face is about the color of an overripe tomato, and you're not meeting my eye.

'Shit, sorry, I must have…' I splutter. I have _got _to stop getting into these situations.

'It's- it's okay, you've…um, you've kind of missed your curfew though.' You do a fair bit of spluttering yourself, but try and smile up at me before glancing away, still red-faced.

I check my watch: fuck_, _it's 2am; my dad's going to go mad. You must read my mind or something, either that or I'm very transparent, 'You could…stay over. If you like.' You say softly, and I don't think you _mean_ it in that way but…

'I can't. I don't think I should.' I reply, too fast. 'Uh, I don't mean…I just…I shouldn't.' I can't ignore how crestfallen you look, maybe even a little offended. 'I'm sorry.' I say, quietly. You shake your head and smile softly.

'It's okay.' Then you lead me upstairs, past your dad, who's fallen asleep watching TV too, and to the front door.

If things were different, if I wasn't so goddamn scared, this would be the point where I kissed you goodnight. Hell, if things were different, I could fall asleep with you in my arms and not think twice about it. Then, when we woke up, fully clothed, we'd laugh about it, and maybe, if we were _together, _we might strip each other off and kiss, and fool around and then curl up in bed together and fall asleep cuddled around each other.

As it is, things aren't different. So instead of kissing you or taking you in my arms, I simply smile, thank you for the evening and give you another affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.

Then, I walk to my car, wishing with every ounce of my being that things were different.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

I avoid thinking about what happened last night all through the day. I think I do it quite well, too, minus a couple of suspicious looks from Azimio about why I'm being so miserable that morning. The reason is partly because of the less than cheerful goodbye we shared at your doorstep, but also because of the bollocking I got from my dad when I got back. Six missed calls, three answer phone messages and four texts say my Dad cares about me. I narrowly escaped grounding, but only because I made the point that I'd only fallen asleep due to the amount of extracurricular activities I'm taking. _That_ shut him up; he's always been proud of my scholastic achievements.

Speaking of extracurricular activities, today's Glee practice is underway, and I'm one of the first ones here, for the first time since we go these stupid wheelchairs. Then the Cupcake Crew comes rolling into the choir room, with faces like a wet weekend. 'What happened?' I ask, also noting that that Finn isn't here even though I'm sure he was on duty this lunchtime. Nor is Puck, for that matter.

'Worst bake sale _ever.'_ Quinn is the first to answer, but somehow her anger seems to extend further than the lack of money made.

'It can't have been that bad.' Artie says with fruitless optimism. Santana's expression alone shoots him down.

'We sold one cupcake. _One._' She fumes, and I can't help but wince. That…yeah, that's pretty damn bad. 'And that was to _Brittany. _Well, it was for Becky…' I can't help but sense something that sounds suspiciously like jealousy there, '…but Brit paid for it.' I don't even bother asking what she's talking about, since Mr. Schue comes in and Santana is immediately distracted by bitching at him about how crappy the bake sale was.

'Where are Finn and Puck?' I ask Quinn, and immediately know that I shouldn't have. That Queen-bitch glare really stings.

'Why would _I _know?' She snaps in reply, and flicks her hair over her shoulder before wheeling off. I let out a low whistle and make a comment under my breath about baby-hormones.

'Not sure about Finn, but I think I saw Puck going to the Home Ec. Room.' Artie supplies, a tad more helpful.

'Can you go fetch him?' Schue turns around and asks me; now I wish I'd never inquired.

I grumble all the way there. Then, as I walk into the Home Ec. Room, I see Puck making cupcakes. Huh, now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say.

'I didn't take you for the baking type, Puckerman.'

'Yeah? I could say the same for you, Karofsky, but I remember the brownies last year.'

Oh, God, I'd forgotten about that. When Azimio had found out about my culinary expertise, he'd tried for months to get me to make hash brownies for our friends and eventually I gave in. It was peer pressure, okay? Hell, I wasn't even brave enough to _eat_ the damn things! Too afraid of what I might say, as per usual.

'That was one time! I didn't even know what I was doing, Azimio just gave me the drugs and-'

'Yeah, yeah, you're the picture of innocence, whatever. Can you make them or not?' Puck waves at me impatiently and I frown at him in return.

'I don't think hash brownies are really the answer here. The cupcakes-'

'Oh, come on, Karofsky. You know as well as I do that cupcakes _suck. _I'll supply the drugs, you make the yummies.' He makes it sound so easy, like we wouldn't be committing a felony or anything.

'Do you have _any_ idea how much trouble we'd get in if we got caught?' I snap. As if I haven't been involved in _enough_ drug related drama this year.

'We won't get caught! We won't put in enough to get 'em hallucinating, just enough to give them a wicked case of the munchies. That's why they'll keep coming back for more.' He gives an iniquitous grin.

I suppose he's right: it _would_ make us Glee kids look slightly less pathetic. And if we started to look less pathetic, people would be less shitty towards us, which by extension _might_ mean you get picked on less. You getting bullied less would be great for everyone, right? Worth committing a crime for? I groan in defeat; the things I do for my friends.

'Fine. Whatever. You're late for Glee.' I say, and the smirk on his face proves I'm a sucker.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

Day three of The Wheelchair Project, and I'm late for American History. It's not exactly my fault; it's the damn wheelchair. I can still barely control the thing and Azimio has buggered off somewhere so I don't have a friend to steer me out of walls…or people. Lauren Zizes is _scary_ when she's angry. It's not _my _fault she's hard to miss.

Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have said that out loud. I cradle my hand where Lauren gripped it hard enough to break my fingers. Or at least, hard enough to make me aware of the fact that she could break my fingers, if she should so choose.

I wheeled away pretty damn fast after that. I wish I could do the same now, but my arms are so tired from wheeling that I can barely roll myself faster than snails' pace.

The corridors are empty, since everyone else is in class. I must be _really_ late. Mr. Matthews is going to kill me. I'm already bad enough at History without adding tardiness to the list.

This is when I see you. You're stood by your locker, but you're not moving. Just…staring blankly into it. No, it isn't even open; you're just looking _at _it.

'Kurt?' I call, and you whip around so fast I'm surprised you don't hurt your neck. Your eyes go wide and panicked, like you've been caught doing something wrong. Or, damn, like someone you're trying to escape has caught you. You stand with your back flat against the locker. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm…' I know you're about to say _fine_ but you trail off, and even from down here I can see the tears in your eyes.

Wait, _down_ here? 'Where's your wheelchair?'

'It's damaged.'

Okay, last I checked, these things were pretty near indestructible, considering how many times I've slammed mine into things by accident. 'How?'

'It took a tumble down some stairs. With me in it…I mean, I managed to jump out before it got very far, but…I think I totaled it. Finn's trying to fix it now.'

'Why were you trying to go down stairs in a wheelchair?' I know it sounds stupid even before I say it, and your face confirms it. Your expression, I mean, but also a small scrape on the side of your face, where you'd obviously collided with a wall or something whilst trying to escape the wheelchair.

'I _wasn't. _Someone pushed me.' You admit. The world goes red again.

'What?' I try not to shout, but it still comes out pretty loud. 'Who?'

'I didn't see. I was too busy trying not to _die.'_

I count to ten very slowly in my head. It doesn't work, but it makes me feel like I learnt _something_ in anger management.

'Are you okay?' I ask again, then lean over to move your head so I can see the scrape, but you flinch and pull away.

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.' You say, but you still sound slightly _off._

'That's not all, is it?'

You twitch slightly, sigh, and move out of the way. Now that you're not covering it, it's pretty clear. The word _FAGGOT_ is spray painted on your locker in bright pink paint. I feel my stomach twist angrily.

'Kurt, you need to report this.'

There's a moment of silence. Then, 'I can't. If I report it, they'll…' and you trail off, because we both know what you're going to say.

They'll call your dad.

'You need to-'

'I _know_ what I need to do!' You snap, then seem to deflate as you realize what you did. 'I'm sorry, it's just _hard._ How am I supposed to go up to him and say _hey dad, some guys at school are making my life a living hell because I'm a flaming homo.'_

'I don't know.' I say honestly. 'But you have to do it somehow. Would you rather he heard it from the school?'

'Oh, god, he'd probably yell at them. It'd be so embarrassing.' You sigh, glance back at the paint, and look at me in utter defeat. 'I'm really going to have to tell him, aren't I? _Ugh_. I'll do it tonight. Can we talk about something else now, please?'

I try to think of another topic. 'Finn's looking for a job, so he can help Quinn with the baby. You think he could help your dad out in the garage? I mean, you said he needed a new worker.'

You pause to consider it. 'That's actually not a bad idea. I mean, it's not exactly rocket-science. I don't know if he'd be qualified enough but…I'll ask.'

I shrug, 'Just an idea. Worth a try, right? He's currently trying to get a job at the Olive Garden as a busboy.'

You stifle a laugh. 'Isn't he a bit _tall_ for that?' I find myself laughing too. I guess it's infectious.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The laughing is short-lived.

Your eyes are red like you've been crying and I feel myself flood with panic. 'Kurt? Are you okay? What happened?'

'I told him.' You say, your voice choked, 'This morning, I told him about the call. A-and the other stuff. The pranks.'

'And?' I encourage. You sniff quietly, and shake your head.

'You should have seen him, Dave! He was _so_ upset, he wouldn't say it, but I could see it in his expression. It…it just killed me.'

'Kurt, you can't just-'

'I'm thinking…' you cut me off, then pause again, like you can't get the words out 'maybe I should lose.'

'Lose what?' I say, and then I realize, 'the contest for the solo? Why would you want to do that?'

Silence, for a moment. Then you speak, quietly, scared. 'I can't sing a girl's song in front of thousands of people, Dave.' Your voice is strained. 'It would just make things so much worse. There would be more teasing. More calls, more pranks at my house. I can't expose my dad like that. He…he wouldn't be able to handle something like that phone call. If he'd been the one to pick it up…it would break his heart, Dave! I can't _do _that to him!'

'But you can't just give up! You can't just put your dreams aside because of other people – do you really think he'd want that? And giving up because of some assholes bullying you from the shadows? It's just not _you,_ Kurt.'

'Maybe it's not _me. _But if not being me means I can avoid my dad getting hurt, is it that bad?

I freeze. Of course I want to tell you that you're wrong. I want to tell you that your dad has nothing to so with your decision to be out and proud, that you should be yourself and not worry about anyone else…but that would be hypocritical, now, wouldn't it? The guy in the closet telling you to be out and proud.

'I'm going to botch the High-F.' You say, your voice cracking. 'And lose the competition.' I stare at you sadly and you glare defiantly back. 'And you can't stop me.'

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

So apparently Puck is an evil genius.

People clambering for brownies surround our table like ants. 'They're addictive, do you want one?' From across the table Santana hands a brownie to Mr. Schue but he declines, thank God.

We've already sold a shitload of brownies, which by itself is insane, but I have three more ovens cooking and enough mixture for maybe another four batches. I don't even want to _know_ where Puck got that much hash.

'Oi, Karofsky, we're gonna run out soon, are there any left in the Home Ec. room?' Puck interrupts my thoughts and I look up just as he bats a brownie away from Quinn. 'Don't eat any of those. Trust me.' He tells her, and she looks confused and worried, dropping the brownie pretty fast and glaring between the two of us suspiciously.

'Yeah, there's still some more batches cooking.' I reply, standing up before I remember I'm in a wheelchair. Then with a wave, I wheel myself out of the cafeteria, accidently hitting a few students on the way.

The first thing I notice in the Home Ec. room is the giggling. You, Mercedes and Rachel are all sat on the floor, the two girls beside you laughing their asses off. You just have a wide, dopey grin on your face and I can see your teeth, which means something is definitely wrong.

'You guys ate the brownies.'

'I only wanted one!' Mercedes says between laughs, having the decency to look guilty. You let out a chuckle and then slump on her shoulder, closing your eyes.

'But?'

'They were _so_ good!' Rachel squeals, and then I notice that she's still clutching one so, abandoning my wheelchair, I march over and pluck it out of her hand, which earns me a whine of, 'Dave, you're so mean!'

Oh, God, how much have you guys eaten?

'How many did you eat?' I ask, and the girls just burst into giggles again, whilst you stare up at me bashfully, before dragging yourself to your feet.

'He's not mean.' You drawl, and I wonder how slowly the world is moving for you right now, 'You're not mean. You used to act mean sometimes but now you're really nice. And funny.' Suddenly you lean forward into me, your face resting on my chest. 'And…big.'

Okay, that's enough. I push you gently off me, forcing my eyes away from your face because I know you're poutingand I don't think I can resist the pout.

'Listen, guys. You're a little bit high.' I'm greeted by confused looks. 'They're _hash brownies_. I mean, there's not really that much in there…but you guys seem to have eaten…' I glance at the two empty trays next to you, 'a _lot.'_

I must have left a couple of trays here by accident. Briefly wondering how you haven't all thrown up, I scoop up the empty trays and go to check the brownies in the oven. You follow me, and before I know it, your arms are looped around me. 'Daaavid,' you whine, drawing out the word. 'I want another one.'

'I think you've had enough.' I twist out of your grip and hold you by the shoulders. You still have that dopey grin and your pupils are dilated. Fucking Puck, he said they weren't that strong! Then again, I don't think he expected anyone to eat about fifteen of them at once. Shoving you out of the way gently, I stick a prong into the brownies and decide they're ready.

'C'mon, Dave, one more!' I bat your hand away with an oven glove before you burn yourself, and you pout again and walk off as I test the rest of the batches and take them out.

'Can I have some of this?' Your voice drifts from behind me, and I grab the bowl of mixture from you just in time.

'No!' I shout, and your face falls, but quickly you're laughing, staring at my hands. I look down and realize I've managed to cover one hand in sticky brownie mixture and can't help but let out a frustrated groan. I put the bowl down and give you a warning glare, turning around to turn off the ovens.

'Dave…there's mixture on my hand.' My whole body freezes as you come up from behind me, pressing me against a wall. You've grasped _my_ hand in yours. I turn around sharply and try to push you away, but you grab my hand again. You might be hallucinating, since I'm pretty sure you think you're holding your own hand_._

'That's not…hey, what are you-'

Then before I can say anymore, you've taken my hand and started…erm, _licking_ it in the most obscene manner. '_Kurt!'_ I squeak, but you ignore me, sucking on each finger in a very inappropriate way that sends sparks of arousal straight to my groin. I glance over at Mercedes and Rachel and another wave of panic spreads through me because they've _gone_ and fuck, you won't stop _sucking_ and I can't seem to bring myself to stop you.

When my hand is all cleaned, you lift it up and then, staring at me in bewilderment, say simply, 'It's _your_ hand.' I snatch it away and hope to everything holy that you don't look down and see the tenting in my pants. Thankfully, you don't. Instead, you turn on your heels and flounce away as I try to will away the very unseemly hard-on I'm now sporting.

I grab my phone and quickly dial Artie's number because he's the first Glee kid on my contact list.

'Who dis be?' He answers. I immediately regret not scrolling down, but he'll have to do.

'Uh, dis be…it's Dave. You with the Cupcake Crew?' Why didn't I just call Puck? I could just have yelled at him down the phone.

'_Brownie Brigad_e now, yo. We're selling brownies by the ton. Weren't you supposed to be getting more?'

'Yes – can you tell Puck to get his ass to the Home Ec. Room? _Quickly.'_ Artie relays the message, and I say thanks and goodbye hurriedly before hanging up.

Now, where the fuck did you go? I briefly check the time on my phone. _Shit,_ Glee Club is in less than half an hour. Which means your Diva-off with Rachel. Double shit.

I bounce on my heels waiting for Puck because I know I can't really leave the brownies again. It takes him a few minutes to arrive and I chuck the oven-glove in his face. Luckily my utter panic has managed to scare off my little problem or I'd probably never be able to face Puck again.

'I need you to cut the brownies and plate them up.' I demand, ignoring his confusion. 'Kurt, Mercedes and Rachel add a shit-load of them and now they're high as a kite and wandering around the school.'

'That explains a lot.' Puck grimaces, 'I saw them running towards the Choir Room. When I tried to stop them, Kurt told me my Mohawk was a disgrace to modern fashion and poked me in the shoulder.' I can't help but let out a laugh at that, despite the venom Puck says it with, and I take off for the choir room without another word.

Thankfully, Puck wasn't lying, and I find you, Rachel and Mercedes in the choir room. Rachel is lying over two chairs, Mercedes is sat at the drum kit and you're slumped over the piano, playing the same four notes over and over. I go to check the girls are okay and then stroll over to you.

It sounds eerie, whatever you're playing, but also familiar.

'What's that?' I ask, but you ignore me. Your eyes are glazed and half-lidded. 'What are you playing?'

'_I'm through accepting limits, 'cause someone says they're so…some things I cannot change but 'till I try, I'll never know…'_ You sing softly, sadly. I recognize _Defying Gravity _immediately and realize the four notes are the beginning notes of the song.

'You're right.' I whisper, perching on the piano stool next to you. 'If you don't try, you'll never know.' Your fingers press those four notes again, and then change to a longer stretch of six or so notes.

_'Lost all resistance and crossed a borderline…and if it turns out it's over too fast…I'll make every last moment last.'_

I don't know which song that's from – it's a _Wicked _song, but I don't know which one. Your fingers slip off the piano and you just stare at the keys. God, remind me never to let you near drugs again. You seem to be slipping from one extreme to the other. Only…I get the feeling that this particular emotional state is one you've been trying to hide for the last few weeks.

_'…as someone told me lately…everyone deserves a chance to…'_ you trail off, a tear running down your face.

'Fly.' I finish for you in a whisper so quiet I'm surprised you hear it. You nod softly, turning to face me. God, you look beautiful. If only I could…just this once…I lean forward –

'Oh, good! You guys are here early!'

- and snap back as Mr. Schue's voice echoes through the Choir Room.

The Cupcake Crew (sorry, _Brownie Brigade_) follow him in, Puck at the back looking distinctly suspicious. He glances at Rachel and Mercedes, who seem a little less obviously high now. Then he looks at you; watery eyed, leaning on my shoulder and staring into space rather dozily.

'Commence the diva-off!' Schue calls, and Rachel jumps up eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. Mr. Schue, naive as ever, commends her enthusiasm, and we move away from the piano and let Brad take his place, sitting to the side so you can glower at Rachel.

She sings beautifully as always, but bursts into a fit of giggles at the end. I panic for a minute, but luckily Mr. Schue puts it down to nerves and calls you up with a reassuring smile. You stand, solemn but brave-faced, and, after a quick word with Brad, begin to sing.

It's…haunting, there's no other way to describe it. You begin the melody slower than I remember, chilling and quiet, and as the song builds up, your voice begins to rise. Louder, you sing the chorus with a blur of emotions – defiance, pain and power all smashed into a singular voice.

And then we reach the crescendo. I know it's coming, the high note, the low B or easy A or whatever it is. I can see the panic in your eyes and you're glancing around like you're trying to decide what to do.

You pause for barely a second, but I hear it anyway – the hesitance. Your eyes rest on me. Without even thinking about it, my face breaks out into a smile.

You breathe deeply, and belt out the most perfect high F I've ever heard.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

Even as I wrote the words _Kurt Hummel_ on my piece of paper for the vote, I already knew you'd won. You, apparently, had less confidence, but now you're grinning widely and cheering. Rachel has stormed out – perhaps unsurprisingly, but you were the clear winner.

'I can't believe I did that. I actually did it, I won!' I think the drugs might be beginning to wear off by now, but I can't be sure.

'You glad I made hash brownies now?' I ask, quietly, and your eyes suddenly narrow into a glare.

'No. Thanks to you, that's the _third_ public substance abuse incident I've had. You're a bad…' You can't seem to find the word so you wave your hand around vaguely.

'Influence?' I suggest.

'Yes. That. You're a terrible influence on me, David Karofsky.'

'It was Puck's idea, not mine!' I hold up my hands defensively. You shake your head, and then blink hard, as if the room is spinning.

'Am I still…' You break in the middle of your sentence, 'Yeah. I am. If you ever tell my dad about this, I'll kill you.' You jest, poking me hard in the chest. We both stare at your finger for a second. Then, I pause to consider it for a moment before I pull you into a hug.

Maybe I hold on a little too long. Maybe you hold on a little too tight. Maybe, after we pull apart, you stare up at me through those thick lashes, your face flushed red and your mouth stretched into a bashful grin.

Not that I'd know, because I totally don't notice that kind of thing about you.

There's silence for a little while. Then, 'Did I _lick _your_ hand?'_

We pause, stare at each, then burst into simultaneous laughter as I vow to stop getting you high before one of us does something _really _stupid.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	9. Ballad

Yes, I'm updating twice in two days. I'm probably as surprised as you are. **  
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**Rating:** T but there's probably swearing.

**Warnings: **Uh, the swearing *shrugs***  
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**Disclaimer: **If I owned Fox, Glee would probably just be a giant orgy and Schue would have been fired a long time ago.

**Notes:** I can never say enough how amazing you guys are. Especially my anons, who I can't reply to - your reviews are amazing and thank you so much for taking the time to leave them!

* * *

**Ballad**

The funny thing about being in Glee Club is that we just can't seem to have a normal week. Almost as soon as the Wheelchair Project is over, Mr. Schue comes up with another bright idea to make my life as awkward as humanly possible.

Apparently my dear friend Rachel has been writing to the Show Choir board, she brags, as Mr. Schue informs us that this year, we have to include a _ballad_ in our set list.

I don't know what a ballad is. Okay, I know enough to know that Brittany's wrong; it's not a male duck. At least I'm not the dumbest person here.

'A ballad is a love song.' Your voice breezes from the other side of the room, floaty and…_lovestruck._ I don't look at you, because I get the feeling your eyes are fixed on me.

'Sometimes, but they don't always express love.' He puts you down quickly. He's been a little bitter towards you since Rachel had her diva-moment last week; she refused to return for a few days when we really needed her to sing the solos. 'Ballads are stories set to music, which is why they're the perfect form of self-expression. Stories and music are how we express feelings that we can't get out any other way…' I try not to look over to you, really try. I don't like the sound of where this is going.

'So here's our assignment for the week: I'm going to pair you off and I want you to pick a ballad to sing to your partner. Look them right in the eye,' I finally dare to glance over at you and I meet your gaze, immediately feeling my face heat up. But I can't look away now, it'll look too suspicious, but you're staring at me! 'Find the emotion you want to express and make them _feel it.'_

'I pick Quinn.' Finn says, beside me, and I quickly descend into a panic. Who am I supposed to choose? I can't choose _you, _you're just my friend, but it's not like I can pick anyone else. I should probably go with Rachel but I _really _don't want to sing to her. Hell, I'd rather sing a love song to Lauren Zises. Though, actually, I pity anyone who tries to sing a love song to Lauren. I can't see her taking it well.

'Oh, no.' Mr. Schue interrupts my inner monologue. 'Too easy. Your partners will be chosen by _fate_.' I let out a sigh of relief. At least now I'll probably get Tina or something, and just sing a song about indifference.

Mr. Schue goes and puts all of our names in the hat. Puck goes first, getting Mercedes, then Artie gets Quinn, Santana gets Brittany and Tina gets _Other Asian._ (I'm not entirely sure if it Tina was just saying that or if Mr. Schue genuinely still doesn't know Mike's name, either way, Mike doesn't look happy.) Finn and I step up together and pull out the names.

I stare down at the piece of paper in my hand and see the word _Rachel Berry_ written on it with her obnoxious gold star stuck next to it. (Did she make Mr. Schue put the star on?) But for some reason, instead of _Rachel_, the name that comes out of my mouth is 'Kurt.'

The others giggle and make comments as Finn glances at me in confusion: there's only two left, so obviously _his _piece of paper says Kurt. 'Guess I've got Rachel then.' He says, with a grin, but his eyes still survey me curiously.

I ignore Finn and look at you. Your face is lit up with joy and when you smile at me, I know I've done the right thing. I mean, if it was the fates deciding, no one can get suspicious, right?

I sit back down next to Finn and Quinn, who leans on his shoulder affectionately. 'Would you mind clarifying what kind of songs you want us to sing?' Artie raises a hand and asks.

Mr. Schue opens his mouth to answer, but Rachel interrupts him. 'Why don't you let Finn and I demonstrate? Brad – _Endless Love _in B flat please?' Finn stares between Rachel and his fuming girlfriend, shrugs, and walks up to the performing area, earning the glare-to-end-all-glares from Quinn.

'I really don't think that's an_ appropriate_ song.' She says icily, adjusting her headband and flicking a blond strand of hair to the side.

'Why? It's a great song and a perfect ballad.' Rachel says defensively, trying and failing to look innocent.

'I really like that song.' Finn admits, which gets him another glare. I face-palm, and hear a groan from one of the others at Finn's stupidity.

'Okay, for demonstrative purposes.' Schue says with a wary glance at Quinn, who folds her arms and huffs.

About ten seconds after the song starts, my phone buzzes.

_"We could totally sing this song together"_ the text reads.

I glance over at you and grin, but as soon as I open a reply, another text comes through. "_But screw you if you think you're taking the Diana Ross part from me." _I stifle a laugh.

_"your part is safe" _I text back "_i dont even know who diana ross is"_ It's a joke; I do know…I think. She's the one who sang _I'm Coming Out, _right? Maybe I should sing _that _song as my ballad.

From across the room, I see you clap your hand to your mouth in mock horror. "_That's it – there is no way I can work with you now_." I can almost hear the feigned haughtiness in your voice. "_Seriously – this is going to be great" _Oh, god you're so 's going to go so horribly wrong; I can tell, "_I already have the perfect song picked out. Have any ideas yet?"_

You glance over at me and I shake my head; you look a little crestfallen at that. We both slip our phones away and go back to watching the song. Rachel is giving Finn the _I want to have your babies_ look and Finn's just naively playing along as per usual.

As the song ends, Finn comes to sit back down and Quinn turns away from him, glaring daggers.

'Yeah…something like that.' Mr. Schue says cautiously, and waves us away for the next lesson.

You catch up with me as I collect my stuff, looking kind of dejected. 'You're not bothered about having to perform with me, are you? I mean, if you don't want to, you can swap-' You say, not meeting my eye. I cut you off.

'No, it's not that.' It's not like I can tell you why I don't want to sing with you…_to_ you.

'If it's about singing with a guy, don't worry, Brittany and Santana-'

'It's nothing!' I snap, cutting you off again. Your face drops and I feel a twist of guilt. 'Sorry, it's…don't worry about it.'

I feel so dumb now. I should have just sung to Rachel and let Finn embarrass himself with you. What am I supposed to do now, sing you a love song? This assignment is about expressing our feelings and I have absolutely no idea what my feelings towards you really are. And even if I did know, what song could possibly sum up the complicated tangle of my feelings?

I groan inwardly and wonder how my voice would sound singing _Y.M.C.A_

* * *

~ _Briiiing ~_

* * *

Of course, mine isn't the only song selection I need to worry about, apparently.

'David, I need your help finding a song that will make Finn fall madly in love with me.' Rachel, subtle as ever, seizes me by the arm and marches me down the hall.

'Rachel, they're having a _baby._' Obviously I'm talking about Finn and Quinn. I mean, as far as _Rachel_ is concerned, Finn's the dad. I'm assuming that Finn knows that he's not by now – half the school does – but I think they're still keeping it a secret, at least from Rachel, it seems.

'And Quinn is inevitably going to break his heart.' I don't have the heart to tell her otherwise. Obviously, if they've worked through the fact that she's pregnant with another guy's baby, they can work through anything.

I humor her anyway, 'So you want Finn to come crawling to you when she does?'

'Exactly! Now, help me pick a song.' I roll my eyes at her, muttering something about how I can't pick my _own_ songs, when she drags me in the direction of the choir room.

'Now, I'm thinking something like _Don't Cha_ by the Pussycat Dolls or _Don't Marry Her_ by the Beautiful South.'

'Rachel, you're awful. I'm not helping you.' I pull my arm away from her and start walking faster.

'I'll help you with yours! You should sing _I Will Always Love You _to Kurt!_'_ She shouts from behind me. I turn and shush her, then after a quick glance around, veer off to the side of the corridor where my locker is.

'That is the worst song _ever._' I say into my locker as I throw books in and fish for my calculus textbook.

'_My Heart Will Go On?'_ She suggests, beaming. I slam my locker shut.

'Please stop talking.' I try to walk away but she just won't leave me alone.

'Well, if you're not going to listen to my suggestions, you might as well help me out!' She fumes, still following me like a little lost puppy.

_Ugh. _'Fine. Whatever. Please promise me you won't sing him a love song in front of his pregnant girlfriend.' We walk into the choir room, where she seems to have been aiming for all along. Obviously she wants to commandeer the whole room for her song-choosing process.

'So not _I Will Always Love You?'_

'No!' I snap, 'God, what is it with girls and that song? No, you can't sing him a love song, that would just be…' I sigh, 'Look, Rachel, the song's about _your_ feelings. What do you feel about Finn…and Quinn, too.'

'I want Finn.'

Mental facepalm. 'Yeah, okay. Got that. And Quinn?'

'I'm jealous of her.' She says quietly, and she seems suddenly to be talking to herself. 'She's everything I'm not – she's popular, she's pretty and I'm…not her. That's it!' Her face lights up, 'I've got the perfect song to express how I feel! I'm going to sing _I'm Not That Girl,_ from _Wicked.'_

…Why does everything seem to revolve around _Wicked,_ lately?

'I don't really know that one.' I admit. I really have to get the soundtrack.

'Shall I sing it to you? I can do it off the bat, it's one of my back-up solos.' I don't even have time to begrudgingly agree before she starts barking orders at Brad (was he there the whole time?)

She does sound good singing it, I'll admit. It really suits her voice – I'll bet it's sung by the green witch, whatever her name was, the Wicked Witch of the West. There are a couple of lines that really stick out, too, but maybe that's because she waves her hands madly at me as if to emphasize them.

_'Blithe smile, lithe limbs, she wins them; she wins him. Gold hair, with a gentle curl: that's the girl he chose, and heaven knows I'm not that girl.' _Her reasons for choosing it (other than the obvious fact that Quinn is blond,) make sense; it does seem kind of perfect to sum up her feelings towards Finn and Quinn. I feel a twinge of sympathy for Rachel despite myself; she's got it bad.

_'There's a girl I know; he loves her so…I'm not that girl.'_ She finishes, with a dramatic flair of the arms, a look of distant longing and teary eyes. I applaud softly, smiling at her as reassuringly as I can muster.

Right there and then I vow that if Quinn and Finn do break up, I'll help Rachel get Finn. In my head, it doesn't sound that difficult a task.

* * *

~ _Briiiing ~_

* * *

'Sing to me everything you feel.'

I'm still pretty sure they don't have a song to express everything I feel. Maybe I'll write one. I'll call it '_I think I'm falling for you but you're a guy and I really don't want to be gay so I can't let myself fall for you but oh my god you're so gorgeous and I want to kiss you all the time but shit, what would my father think and the whole school would kill me what do I do I'm so scared I just want to hide in my closet for ever and ever and not come out.'_

…I just can't see it making the top-40 somehow.

'I…uh, I haven't picked a song yet.' That's a lie. I have picked a song; I've spent the last day trying to think of songs to sing to you. The funny thing is, when you've got a crush on someone, _every_ love song feels like it's about them. So I've got to be careful I don't offend you by singing _Fat Bottomed Girls _or something.

To clarify, you're neither a girl nor the slightest bit fat. In fact, your backside is one of the most perfectly defined I've ever seen. But, uh, anyway. Yesterday, I sat on my bed flicking through my iPod for hours trying to find the perfect song, starting with A: _Accidentally in Love?_ Totally about us, but too happy. _Alejandro? _I know you like the song, but hello, wrong message. _All You Need is Love?_ Nah, I don't think I can pull off the Beatles. _As Long As You're Mine?_ Oh, yeah, I downloaded the _Wicked _soundtrack last night too. _Ass Like that? _Um…no.

And so I continued for the rest of the damn evening until I finally got down to the end of the alphabet with a couple of scribbled suggestions.

Written down I had _Behind Blue Eyes, Fix You, The Way You Look Tonight _and a couple of Bublé songs. None of them seemed quite right, though.

And then I saw it, right near the end, and I couldn't believe I didn't think of it earlier.

_'It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside…'_

_Your Song,_ by Elton John. It was perfect; the iconic love song, the most romantic song _ever._ Only, that itself was the problem. The song would be honest, it would tell Kurt exactly what I feel. I'm not ready for that. I'm not ready to lay it out and accept…accept whatever this is. I don't want to change things, I don't want to have to spend every day with the knowledge that I'm not normal, I don't want to be teased and bullied like you are. I don't want to be different. I want to be the same guy I've always been, why should I change things?

Of course, I know why. I'm not stupid. I know I can't keep this up forever. I want to be with you. Being friends is great, but I'm all too aware that my feelings for you extend far further than that. Friends don't want to kiss their friends, or dream sexual dreams about them, or ache to touch them every time they're near.

'Dave?' You break my thought bubble, 'Did you come up with something?'

'No, I…' I pull the sheet music out of my bag. 'I just changed my mind. There are some things I want to say…but I'm afraid to say them. That's what my song is about.' Your eyes go wide, hopeful. I wonder what you think I'm about to sing.

I hand you the sheet music and your expression stiffens, suddenly unreadable. You've tensed, and when you laugh softly, it's awkward and feigned. 'Thank god I've never missed a piano lesson.'

The opening to _Iris_ by the Goo Goo dolls drifts in piano form, even sadder than usual.

_'And I'd give up forever to touch you, 'cause I know that you feel me somehow. You're the closest to heaven than I've ever been and I don't want to go home right now.'_ I sing the lyrics out to the audience, but I think we both know who it's really about.

It's a morbid song, I know, but I couldn't think of a more perfect one to tell you how I feel. How I wish I could tell you how I feel. How I don't want to tell you because I don't want to admit it.

_'And I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand. When everything seems to be broken…I just want you to know who I am.' _

The music judders and you skip a note, but I keep on going regardless.

I wish I could just say it, say that I have feelings for you, say that I want to hold you tight and kiss you and tell you that you're the most gorgeous, amazing guy I've ever met, how I want to stay with you forever and never let you go.

But for now, I'm too scared to tell you anything, except for how scared I really am.

When I finally stop, I walk back over to the piano and stare down at you. I realize suddenly why your playing had started going a little off at the end there: you're crying.

'Kurt?' I speak gently, laying my hand on your shoulder, but you jerk away. 'Are you alright?'

'You are so clueless.' You say, bitterly, and before I know it, you're storming out of the auditorium, your shoulders tense and your hands shaking violently. I stare at your retreating back, torn between following you and letting you be. Finally, I collapse onto the piano stool and lay my arms on the piano, ignoring the horrific sound it makes as I press ten keys at once.

I should have just stuck with Y.M.C.A.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

I'm the first into Glee practice the next day, and as I sit down, I wonder for the thousandth time how to apologize to you. I thought about calling you last night, but then I realized that phone conversations were not the best form of communication. So I decided to approach you before Glee Club, and then at least we could spend the rest of the practice surrounded by friends and hopefully things wouldn't be too awkward.

The only problem is that I'm not sure what I should be apologizing _for. _All I know is that I sang a song, and you were so upset that you ran away and won't answer my texts.

You were right; I _am_ clueless.

'Why'd you do it, man?' I jump with surprise as someone breaks my train of thought. It's Finn. 'Why'd you swap with me?'

Oh, great. As if I'm not worried enough already, Finn's decided to play Sherlock. Okay, lying time. Let's try to come up with something believable this time, shall we? 'I thought you might want to sing with Rachel.' I try, a little tentative.

'Why would I want that? I have Quinn.' I assume he thinks I don't know about the whole baby drama. It makes sense, I mean, it must be embarrassing enough that his girlfriend is pregnant with another guy's baby; me rubbing it in that everyone knows probably won't help.

'Yeah, but with the whole baby thing-' I aim for vagueness, hoping that he'll catch my drift and make everything less awkward.

'What, because she's pregnant? Why would I cheat on her because she's pregnant? What kind of guy do you think I am?' Oh, for fuck's sake. I stare him down, trying to convey that _I know_ but he's being stubborn.

'No,' I grind out. 'I just meant, because of the whole _baby daddy_ thing.'

'The what?' I roll my eyes as he tries to pretend he doesn't know what I'm talking about. Because, come on, I know he's dumb, but _everyone_ knows, he can't be the only one…

_Oh_.

'You mean…shit, you don't _know?'_ The words slip out before I even realize. That that's even worse, because now he knows there's something he doesn't know. This is the moment I realize I've stepped in it. Big time. Huge time. Mega-fucking-universal time.

'Don't know _what?'_

There's pretty much no recovering from this. Especially since, from the look on his face, he's (_finally_) figured it out already. I can practically see the light bulb appearing over his head. 'All that time…?' He asks, quietly, before the chair he's sitting in goes flying from under him.

'_Finn!'_ I yell, but he's already storming towards the door, where Puck has just walked in. My body reacts automatically, jumping up and following him.

'I'm going to _kill_ you!' He roars. His legs are longer than mine and damn if he's fast for his size, because he beats me to Puck. Then he _beats_ Puck.

It takes me a while to drag him away from the Mohawked teen. Long enough that there's blood running down his face from a cut lip that's already swelling, and I know there's going to be a black eye on him tomorrow.

'You _knew!'_ He hisses at me as I try and maintain a grip on his arms. 'All this time, you _knew_ and you didn't tell me? _Any of you!'_ He waves at the hall just outside, because a couple other Glee kids have rushed over by this point, also headed to Glee practice. Including Rachel, who looks confused as hell.

'What's going on?' She asks, clueless. Finn rounds on her, and we all move into the Choir Room, out of the hall.

'Did you know about this?' Finn demands, waving vaguely at Puck. Rachel stares at him in bewilderment and then glances at Puck.

'About what?' She asks, totally naïve.

'That I'm not the father!' Her eyes go wide, she immediately looks towards me and I know I'm in trouble for not telling her. I nod slowly, trying to communicate that I knew, but didn't tell her. But before she can yell at me, Quinn comes in, and Finn immediately turns to her.

'Is it true? I want to hear it from you.' She must be able to see Puck standing with his hands in his pockets, face bloodied. 'Is he the father?'

Quinn stares between Finn and Puck, her face frozen in fear. She starts to shake, and before our eyes, Queen-bitch Quinn dissolves into tears. She must have known it was coming, that Finn would eventually find out. We all stare at her as she sobs.

'Yes.' She chokes out, trying to move towards Finn, but he backs off. 'Puck is the father.'

Finn stares at her too. Then at the room around him, as if he doesn't know where to look. There are tears in his eyes too, tears of angry betrayal. Guilt hits me like a freight train. This is all my fault.

'So all of that stuff in the hot tub, you just made that up?' The betrayal in his voice is so painful it hurts to hear, even for me.

'And you were stupid enough to buy it!' Puck interjects, and I grab Finn as he makes for him again, holding him back until he stops trying to throw me off.

'I am so sorry.' Quinn whimpers, her shoulders hunching as her body shakes with sobs.

'Screw this.' Finn says, quietly, and then points an accusing finger at Quinn. He's shaking too, but with pent-up fury. 'I'm done with you! I've done with all of you!' He shouts, then turns on his feet, storming out, but not without sending a chair flying across the room in a furious kick.

Quinn watches him leave, and as Puck steps forward to comfort her, she pushes him away and runs out, heading in the opposite direction as Finn.

All eyes turn to me.

* * *

_~ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

I find Quinn sat in an alcove in a quiet part of the school, still crying, but silently, tears slinking down her face as she stares into the trophy cabinet opposite. I sit down next to her, feeling guiltier than ever.

'I'm so sorry, Quinn.' I say softly, 'I didn't know. I shouldn't have–'

'I'm not mad at you.' Quinn interrupts me. 'Rachel would have found out soon enough anyway, and we all know she'd blab to Finn in a heartbeat.' She smiles bitterly. 'Besides, all you did was what I wasn't brave enough to do: tell the truth.'

'Any girl in your position would have done the same, you know.' I say, perhaps not honestly, but well-intended at least.

'I have hurt _so_ many people.' She whispers, half to herself. I hold out my hand and she squeezes it hard as another round of tears fall down her face. 'Thank you.' I pass her a packet of tissues, pulling one out. She lets me wipe one cheek and gives me an appreciative look. I know what this means; Quinn Fabray doesn't exactly let people in and somehow I doubt she'd let a guy wipe her tears away if she thought he had some ulterior motive. I wonder when she realized. I wonder if anyone else knows.

'You're not as much of a jerk as I thought you were, Karofsky.' She says, quietly, blinking at me with long eyelashes. 'I can see why he likes you.'

I don't have time to ask what that means because I hear footsteps and I look up to see Puck standing there. I back away slightly, but Quinn smiles and shakes her head, a silent goodbye. Puck does the opposite, a stout nod, and as I walk away, he sits down next to Quinn. I silently wish with all my being that I haven't screwed up Quinn's life forever.

When I get back into the choir room, Glee practice is over, but you're still there, waiting for me, it seems.

'Oh. Hey.' I say, quietly, already feeling blood rushing to my face. 'I guess Rachel's going to wait until tomorrow to kill me.'

'I believe she said that she intends to make you watch _Evita_ until you beg her forgiveness.' You say, blasé, but with a hint of humor that doesn't match the grim look on your face.

'And you? How do I earn your forgiveness?' I try not to sound to desperate as I stare at you. You don't meet my eye.

'That's not what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.' You say, in a tone that clearly ends that thread of conversation. I suddenly notice there's a bag in your hands, and you're fiddling with the handles nervously.

'What do you want to talk to me about?' There's a silence after I say it. You glance down at the bag, then up at me, and then somewhere in the corner of the room.

'You left your letterman at my house, Dave.' Your voice is slightly choked.

'Oh, right. Thanks.' You pass me the bag with the jacket in, folded neatly. Oh, thank god, it's just something small. With that expression, I thought I'd done something stupid again. I smile at you, but your face is still grim.

'Dave. We need to talk.'

'Talk about what?' You don't reply, just open your hand and hold it out.

For a second I don't get it, and then I see it, in your hands. A piece of paper, creased like it's been unscrunched from – _oh._

The paper says _Rachel Berry_, written with a slightly bent gold star.

'I can explain.'

'Really?' To say you sound dubious is an understatement; you're staring at me with an intensity that I can't describe.

'Yeah, I…I didn't want to sing with Rachel because…um, because of our history, you know? Because…'

'You're doing it again.' I shoot you a confused look 'The tongue thing. You're lying. Just tell me the _truth,_ Dave!' Your voice becomes hysterical, an even higher pitch than usual.

'I wanted to sing with you.' It slips out as a murmur, but I can tell by your reaction that you hear it. You stare at me in silence, waiting for me to continue. I can see your eyes surveying my every move, and I'm all too aware of my body as I give a resigning sigh.

'I wanted to sing with you.' I say again, a little louder, and looking you directly in the eyes.

'Why?' You ask after a brief pause. Your face gives away no trace of what you're feeling.

I laugh bitterly. 'Why do you _think?' _I spit out, and I can feel my fists clenching. I've been _caught;_ I tried so hard to hide it but…you know now, and I'm more scared than ever.

'Dave, are you-'

I cut you off: 'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Oh, _that's _mature.' You scoff. Your eyes are dark; you're angry.

I run my hand through my hair and give a low groan. 'Can't you just forget you found that piece of paper?'

'Oh, sure. And what about the song – _Iris?_ Really, Dave? Did you think I wouldn't work it out? How dumb _are _you?' You sound pissed off now, but you're acting calmer than I do when I'm annoyed, that's for sure.

'I don't know what you're talking about.' I reply, trying to keep my own voice devoid of emotion. Instead, I sound strained and, well, _guilty. _

You go silent and stare at me, your expression utterly unreadable. Then, finally, you sigh and shake your head.

'Nothing. Never mind.' You say quietly, 'Did I ever tell you what song I decided to sing?'

'N-no. You didn't say.'

You stand up, and as you turn to me, your eyes are full of tears. '_I Honestly Love You.'_ You say, and walk out, leaving me alone again.


	10. Hairography

I hope you guys can appreciate the awkwardness of me trying to update this in the middle of_ Caffe Nero_ whilst being paranoid about people reading over my shoulder! ;D I may have disturbed the occasional customer, but it's worth it to give you the next chapter! **  
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**Rating:** M for swearing, but other than that, it's tame right now.

**Warnings: **Uh, swearing. **  
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**Disclaimer: **If I was Ryan Murphy, I'd probably have been sued by now for inappropriate content.

**Notes: **You guys blow me away every chapter with your amazing comments! Thank you all so much :'D**  
**

Enjoy!

* * *

**Hairography**

Sometimes I wonder how we get ourselves into these situations.

Well, this one's Schue's fault, that I'm certain of. I don't know the details, only that a load of girls in revealing clothing turned up at our auditorium and performed a very raunchy song, and now Mr. Schue is making us wear wigs.

…I'm sure I've missed something there.

You've been in a foul mood all day. One of the hockey guys slammed you into a locker this morning, and I saw you biting back tears, but you wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. Not even now, when we're trying to put on these damn wigs in the bathroom, you disregard me completely.

I haven't spoken to you either. For different reasons; I'm not angry at you, just…scared.

_'I Honestly Love You,' _you said. What was I supposed to think that meant? Was I supposed to infer it literally? That you're in love with me? It sounds ridiculous, even in my head. A guy like you, in love with _me._ It's laughably impossible.

Oh, god, I feel like an idiot with this wig. It's long, brown and curly, coming down past my shoulders and makes me look like a very ugly woman. You, on the other hand, have donned a blond wig that looks absolutely adorable, a little like the one you wore for our mash-up but longer and hanging loose around your shoulders. How much it actually suits you scares me a little.

Actually, I don't think it's just me. The other guys keep giving you glances and I briefly wonder how many of them doubt their sexuality right now. I can see that Puck – who has been on the edge since Finn left – is getting more uncomfortable by the minute, but can't help but keep watching you out of the corner of his eye. Then you stand right in front of him and I see him tense up, hands immediately going to try and sort out his wig.

'You're putting it on wrong!' You tut and roll your eyes, handing him another hairclip. He bats you away with a hand and you glare at him haughtily. 'It's on backwards.' You say, trying to emphasize your point, but he ignores you.

'Yeah, well clearly _some_ of us are already naturals when it comes to cross-dressing.' Puck says icily, and you recoil, stepping back a step. 'Why don't you just go make yourself useful by sneaking into Jane Addams. You'd fit right in.'

'Hey.' I cut in, but Puck ignores me.

'Or go visit the Garglers.' He suggests, rubbing his tongue against the inside of his cheek lewdly, the homophobic implications clear enough.

'The _Warblers.'_ You correct Puck and then give a huff. For a moment I think you're going to kick up a fuss, but you glance at me and your shoulders just slump, and before I know it, you're packing up your stuff with an angry _'Fine!'_ Everyone is looking around at each other, and Puck mouths 'what?' before you storm out of the room.

For a second, it's silent. Then Puck gives a snort of laughter. 'Who pissed in his Appletini?'

I roll my eyes and follow you out of the room, ignoring the snickers and questions of the guys I leave behind.

Of course, if you're going to Homo-high, I'm not going to let you go on your own. You'll probably end up engaged in a mass orgy or something, then abandon us and move schools. Or some hunky prep will catch your eye and I'll…_the Glee Club_ will lose you forever.

I find you at your car, throwing your wig into it. When you notice me, you glare angrily and stare very intently away.

'I'm still not talking to you.' You say, nose high in the air, and I desperately try to resist making the immature comment that immediately comes to mind.

Fuck it, you're already mad at me; I'm sure making immature comments can't worsen the situation. 'That sounded like talking.' Well, that earns me a glare.

'Get in the car.' You growl. 'Well, do you want to come or not?'

Now I do resist making a comment on that, because I really don't want a smack in the face. I start to climb in the passenger side, then pause. 'Do you want me to drive?'

'You're not touching my baby. I just got her back.' You sound bitter. 'It's fine. It's nearly a two-hour trip at the least, though, so we're going to have to stop on the way back. I can make it there without a break, but I'll be tired by the time we leave, I'm sure.'

'Does all the talking mean you've forgiven me?'

'No. Shut up.'

We arrive at Dalton Academy after two hours of the most awkward silence I've ever endured, and as we walk in, it quickly becomes obvious that I can't possibly look moreout of place. You, at least, seem to be somewhat matching the color scheme, and your clothes are all expensive and shit, right? I'm wearing jeans and my letterman jacket with some dorky slogan tee underneath. We're getting odd glances from all around, but you're ignoring them. And me, for that matter. Your eyes are wide and I can see you're impressed because you're smiling at everyone we pass.

The school itself is pretty awesome; even I have to admit that. Not exactly my kind of place, that's for sure, but walking down this marble staircase makes even me feel a little classy.

'Excuse me!' I look up when your voice rings out. I'm not the only one. One of the blazers that are strutting all over this place looks up too, with a charming smile.

I hate him immediately.

'Um, hi, can I ask you a question? We're new here.' You say, and I can't help but glower. You sound all flustered and cute; it's disgusting.

'I'm Blaine.' He says, smiling that awful smile and holding out his hand.

'Kurt.' You say, taking it and shaking. Your eyes are glued to his and you look so impressed it's sickening.

'Dave.' I say, not that anyone cares. Blaine offers me a smile too and, okay, the guy's clearly good-looking but that doesn't mean he can't still be an ass-hat.

'Do you mind telling me what's going on?' _Me,_ all of a sudden, not _us_, I notice.

'We - the _Warblers_ – are doing an impromptu concert. Kinda shuts the school down for a while.' Ugh, the grin again. Can I just punch this guy? I mean, who does he think he is, waltzing on in here and…and…smiling at people?

Alright, I might be being a little unreasonable. It's not this guy's fault that he's hot and that you asked him for help. But why did you have to pick _him? _Couldn't you at least have the decency to pick someone ugly?

'Wait, so the Glee Club here is kind of cool?' You continue your conversation, ignoring the fact that I'm glowering at both of you.

'The Warblers are like rock stars.' Blaine explains, looking far too smug for my liking. Oh, so he's a _rock star,_ is he? Big fucking whoop.

'Here, I know a shortcut.' For a moment, I think he's going to take your hand, but he must see me glaring because he thinks better of it.

He leads us down a corridor, the two of you walking in front of me, shoulder to shoulder. For those few minutes, it feels like everything's going in slow motion. All I can see is you two walking so close you could be a couple.

You'd make a pretty couple, the two of you. I can just see the two of you in Breadstix, talking about _Vogue _covers and exchanging hair-styling tips. My stomach burns uncomfortably and it feels like it's risen ten degrees.

When we get to their choir room, there are blazers _everywhere._ I glance around and notice there's only one teacher in the room, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than surrounded by enthusiastic…what were they called, _Warblers?_

'Oh, I stick out like a sore thumb!' You say, embarrassed. Blaine grins, glancing at me in a way that clearly indicates that I stick out much more. Like, maybe a sore _hand._ Or a broken, disfigured, bloody hand, for all the people staring at me.

'Well, next time don't forget your jacket, new kid.' Blaine says with a wink, and then leans over and fixes your collar.

It's such a small movement, barely a second of contact, but it's so personal, so intimate that I want to punch him in the face. I've never been a particularly possessive guy but right now all I want to do is write _Property of Dave Karofsky_ on your forehead.

Of course, I have no right to do that, I realize with a sinking feeling in my stomach. I have no right to be angry with Blaine, either. Or even _you,_ for being interested in him; you're single, you're allowed to look at whomever you like.

That doesn't mean I have to like it, though.

The song starts; _Teenage Dream_ by Katy Perry. I know it pretty well; it's been all over the radio lately. This version is wildly different, however, since it's being sung by a male a capella group. It sounds amazing, not that I'll admit it.

I watch Blaine intensely as he sings, his face stretched into that charming smile. It takes about ten seconds for me to realize he's singing to you. He's practically eye-fucking you, for god's sake, and you're not even doing anything to stop him! Hell, if anything, you're eye-fucking right back! My stomach burns like I ate some bad meat, and I feel my cheeks redden.

I know exactly what this feeling is: it's jealousy. And it's strong; it's so strong that my fists are clenching and my brows are furrowing and I know I must look like a complete wackjob standing here glaring as everyone else cheers.

The performance ends, the room clears slightly, and before I know it, Blaine is stepping forwards, and there's a Warbler on either side of us.

'We'd like to have a word.' Blaine says, and I realize we've been caught.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

I lean back and sip the latte, staring at the guys at the table: Blaine, Wes and (another) David, they introduce themselves.

'It's very civilized for you to invite us for coffee before you beat us up for spying.' you say sheepishly.

I scoff quietly. All three of these guys together couldn't take me on. I'm ignored.

'We're not going to beat you up.' Damn straight they're not. Though, I gotta say, I wouldn't mind getting in a few punches at Blaine.

'You were such terrible spies that we thought it was almost endearing.' David - the other David - says, smiling politely.

'Which made me think that spying on us wasn't really the reason you came.' Blaine cuts back in, focusing on you. I glance over at you, you're staring at the table, and I can see your eyes welling up but I don't really know why. You don't say anything.

'Can I ask you guys a question?' I interrupt, and you glance at me sharply. '_Are_ you guys all gay?'

I'm met with laughs, and you punch me hard in the arm. '_David!'_ You hiss, and then glance at the Warbler. 'I meant him.' You point at me to clarify, not that you needed to.

'Well, I am gay.' Blaine answers, smiling, 'But these two have girlfriends.' I glance between the two guys. They both look pretty gay to me, but I'm not about to say that out loud.

'This is not a gay school.' David says, amused. 'We just have a zero tolerance harassment policy.'

Wow. That must be nice. To be able to be as secure as Blaine and not get the shit beaten out of you. Maybe I should transfer, start dressing like you and speak with a lisp. I hope you can sense the sarcasm there. I mean, they wear uniforms, after all, so I couldn't dress like you, right?

'Everyone gets treated the same, no matter what they are. It's pretty simple.' You and I glance at each other. I would have to be an idiot not to notice the tear that rolls down your cheek. Blaine doesn't miss it either.

'Would you guys excuse us?' He says, and I think he's referring to me too. I don't want to, but I think I should probably leave you guys alone and let Mr. Hairgel say what he wants to before I threaten to beat him up later. I make to stand, but you grab my hand and glance up at me. I drop back into my chair and squeeze your fingers reassuringly. Blaine smiles at us.

'I take it you're having trouble in school.'

'I'm the only person out of the closet in my school.' You whisper, and Blaine's eyebrows furrow slightly.

'So you guys aren't…' He begins to ask, and I drop your hand faster than a hot plate.

'No!' I say, too quickly, and you send me a look I can't read before I continue. 'We're just friends. I'm not…' You snap your own hand away from me, shoving it in your jacket pocket.

Blaine clears his throat. 'So, people are hassling you?' He goes back to ignoring me.

You nod, and Blaine smiles reassuringly and tells us about how he got bullied at his old school and was forced to move to Dalton. I feel a pang of sympathy that I used to be like the guys that chased him out, but it quickly fades when, as we start to leave, he asks for your number.

You look surprised, but his expression is blank. 'If you ever need someone to talk to about all of this, just know that I understand what you're going through.' You look elated, and I feel like hitting something again. Then, after he types in yours, he looks over at me expectantly. It takes me a moment to realize he wants _my_ number too, and the happy look on your face flickers for a moment into something else.

I murmur out my number and give over my phone to let him program his in. When he's done, he reaches out and shakes my hand. 'Nice to have met you, both of you.' He says, smiling. He has perfect teeth, I notice.

The last thing I see of Blaine that day is his smile. I _hate_ that smile.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The journey back isn't half as awkward. Your mood has improved notably, and my bad mood is starting to fade now that Blaine is gone. Neither of us bring up the elephant in the car, but we make small talk and put on the radio. You sing along softly to some of the songs and when I start to harmonize, you sing louder until we're both belting out the lyrics with grins on our faces.

Half way back to Lima, I notice your eyes are starting to droop so I force you to pull in at the nearest roadside diner, and we go and get food. You wrinkle your nose at the greasy option I choose and get a salad and a diet coke. We eat, laugh, talk about Glee club, Rachel and Finn, Sectionals and a whole other bunch of mundane stuff that seems oh so interesting when you're the one saying it. _I Honestly Love You_ isn't mentioned, nor is the talk we had.

Miraculously, you actually let me drive the rest of the way home, though you're polite enough not to go to sleep.

For a while, things are back to normal. We're back to the way we were before, before I sang _Iris,_ before you found out I swapped names with Finn. Before you realized that my feelings for you aren't simply as _friendly_ as I'd like the world to believe. For a while, it's all forgotten and we're back to being just Dave and Kurt again, just two guys enjoying each other's company.

Okay, that sounds so gay, but you know what I mean.

Everything is going so well, at least until Glee practice the next day. I walk in to you recounting our little field trip to the Mercedes, which would be fine, if the entire trip didn't appear to revolve around Blaine.

'They were amazing, guys! There was this guy, his name was Blaine, he's their lead – oh, his voice! He sang _Teenage Dream_, and I'm telling you, we seriously need to step up our game because he is _so _good!_'_ You notice that I've walked in, through your little Blainealogue.

'Oh, David! He heard him too; tell them how amazing the Warblers were! Blaine has a spectacular voice, don't you think?'

'I guess so.' I mutter a reply, sitting down. Mercedes gives me a look, somewhere between curiosity and concern.

'They're certainly going to be _the_ team to beat at Sectionals!' You continue, oblivious. Mercedes is still staring, and I don't meet her eye.

'Sure.' I say, incapable of even pretending I care. You let out a huff, putting your hands on your hips.

'What's up with you?' You inquire, slightly haughty. When I don't reply, you sit down next to me and lean up, staring at my face with a confused expression.

'Nothing.' I murmur, trying to ignore you.

'David, what's wrong?' You lay a gentle hand on my shoulder, genuinely worried.

'I said it was nothing! Can't you just leave it alone?' I snap, jerking away from you hard.

'_God! _Next time I won't ask!' You say sulkily. I don't apologize; I just continue to glare at my hands. You grab your bag and move a few seats down, probably showing how I've just ruined all the progress we made on the journey back. You're most likely back in a strop with me again.

Thankfully, Mr. Schue comes in at this point, and we get to hear all about how the performance that we missed yesterday made him realize that hairography just isn't _us_ and that we're going to do something much more simple today. He brings out a load of stools, and hands us the sheet music to _True Colors._

Brilliant, another song about being true and honest about yourself because, hey, people are amazing and honesty is always the best policy, right? Yeah, unless you're a closeted jock who has feelings for his friend but doesn't want to admit he's g – _not quite straight._

But I perform male lead for the song anyway, with a fake smile on my face and not looking at you. During the rest of the rehearsal, your phone goes off a few times with texts that I can only assume (by the smile on your face) are from Blaine.

He's distracting you, and I need a way to get you back. And I know exactly the way to do it. I've been thinking it through for the last hour. Currently, I need to do three things: fix up Rachel and Finn because of the promise I made her, make Finn come back to Glee Club and get your mind off Blaine. If my genius plan works out, hopefully these things will happen in a domino effect.

'Kurt.' I approach you after practice. 'I'm sorry I snapped at you.'

You hesitate, your eyes surveying my carefully, and then sigh. You look almost restless. 'Apology accepted. Though I don't entirely understand it, your lashing out is wonderfully compelling.' You're fixing your hair, a nervous habit I've noticed you have, kind of like my tongue thing.

'Um, thanks? Look, I need a favor.' After being such a dick earlier, this is probably the worst time to ask, but I have a plan. It's going to work.

'I'm listening.' You say, not smiling, but not glaring, which I think is a good thing.

'I promised Rachel that if Finn and Quinn broke up, well, that I'd help her get together with Finn.' You're clearly unimpressed. 'Wait, you'll like this bit, I promise! I was thinking of ideas, and then, well you know at the end of Grease they give Sandy a makeover and then John Travolta totally falls for her?'

'They dress her up as a complete slut.' You say, deadpanned.

'Well, yeah, obviously we don't dress her like a slut,but I thought you could give her a makeover! Nothing too drastic, just enough to get Finn's attention.'

'And what's in this for me?' Always a cynic. Though, I suppose I'm not really in a position to be asking favors from you where you don't benefit.

'You get to give someone a makeover?' I suggest, trying to grin without looking too desperate.

You let out a laugh, and shake your head. 'I appreciate a challenge as much as the next guy… but Rachel somehow manages to dress like a grandmother and a toddler at the same time.'

'Yeah, well that's why she needs your _help!_ Because you're so amazing and fashionable and – and also, if Finn dates Rachel, he might come back to Glee and-'

'I'll do it.' _Yes! _'Under one condition.' Fuck. There's always a catch.

'What?' I ask, grimly. I can't imagine the cruel things you might ask me to do – your laundry for a month, your math homework, or free lifts to school are the first things I think of.

Your face twists into what can only be described as a smile of pure and utter evil. 'You have to let me make _you_ over too.'

Of course, you wouldn't let me anywhere near your clothes, I pretty much do your math homework anyway, and you probably think your dad will take away your car if you don't drive it. But _this,_ this is more malicious than any of those options; this is _immoral_.

'You're still mad at me, aren't you?' I grind out, wondering how you're going to dress me to humiliate me in front of everyone I know.

'Yes.' You smile again, and I really do fear for my life. Somehow you have a way of appearing threatening even when smiling.

'And this is revenge?' I ask, tentatively. Your smile doesn't let up.

'Maybe a little.' You reply, far too jovial. You seem remarkably less nervous now, probably caught up in the glee of your devilish scheme.

'Fine.' I groan, resigned. You smile that evil smile and flounce off; hips swinging tantalizingly in those far-too-tight skinny jeans that make your ass look _so_ good.

This is not going to end well, I can tell.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

'What exactly am I doing here?' I ask, 'I didn't think you'd actually need me for this bit.'

So, here we are, in Rachel's room, ready for the makeup and trying-on-millions-of-outfits phase of her makeover. The plan's going well so far, and you seem to be enjoying yourself more than I could imagine. Makeovers really are like crack to you.

'Well, you're not interested in Rachel, so you're not going to care how much skin she is or isn't showing. Plus, you lack any fashion sense, so you're not going to care which labels she is or isn't wearing.' You glance at me with disdain, 'Plus I'm still a little mad at you so you think this might make me feel better.'

'Right. Sure. So what am I _doing _here?'

'I'm going to give Rachel a variety of new looks, and you're going to help judge which one Finn will like the most. Being a normal, _straight_ guy –' the sneering tone there is far too obvious, and I'm sure Rachel picks up on it too, ' – you should be a great judge, right?' You smile sweetly, but I know that smile well. It's the smile you give when Rachel gets a solo you want, or when you're shoved to the back of the dances and Schue asks if that's okay with you.

'Right. Sure.' I agree, staring down at my lap in guilt.

The next hour is probably the most torturous one of my whole life. If there's one thing worse than being given a makeover, it's being forced to watch another person being given one. It's so dull that I genuinely consider trying the makeup myself just to have something to do.

'What about this one?' You ask, as Rachel emerges in a dress I'm sure I've seen three times already.

'Uh, great.' You roll your eyes at me again, and then turn to Rachel and tell her that the dress doesn't quite fall right. I didn't know something could fall wrong, but _okay_. Time passes painfully slowly, until you've finally decided on several outfits for her, and then given her makeup tips to match each and every one.

'Now, we're going to do your eyebrows.' And just when I thought it was over. You pull out some weird strips of paper and a pair of tweezers, both of which I hope aren't coming anywhere near me.

'The key is never to wax above the eyebrow. Always shape from below. Trust me, I get a lot of practice; look at mine.'

I always thought your eyebrows were one of your more _masculine_ features, and that they were fairly bushy, but that was before I met Blaine. Oh, hey, you're looking at me.

'Your eyebrows are amazing.' You say, your voice full of wonder as if it's the first time you've noticed. You lean in to examine them and my breath catches in my throat. 'You_ must_ pluck them.'

'Uh, no. They're natural, thanks.' If any other guy said that, I would be insulted, but since it's you, I feel oddly complimented.

'Seriously?' Rachel asks, also staring. 'They're so perfect.'

Okay, starting to get uncomfortable now. I put my hands over my eyebrows. 'Guys! I don't pluck my eyebrows. Go back to your makeover!' You do, thankfully, leaving me alone to contemplate the apparent awesomeness of my eyebrows.

When you're _finally_ done (and I say finally because it feels like I've been here for a week,) Rachel does look admittedly better. You haven't altered her look drastically; instead you've picked out Rachel-ey clothes that actually suit her. You've gone for fairly simple, natural makeup, since apparently Finn likes girls who don't wear too much, and her hair is just curled into waves. She still looks like Rachel, but with a hint of pizzazz.

And then you round on me. In the last phase of the makeover, you'd attacked me with a tape measure and taken all my measurements whilst I resisted making inappropriate comments. Thankfully, you hadn't paraded me around the shops, most likely because you've been avoiding me quite a bit lately. 'Here. I've picked a selection of clothes that will flatter your body shape, rather than trying to hide it under…well, _that.'_ You motion to my current clothes: baggy jeans and my letterman. 'You need to wear clothes that _fit, _David, not ones that are two sizes too big.'

You hand me a bag and I look inside gingerly. Okay, there are no sequins or feathers, that's a start. 'These aren't skinny jeans, are they?'

'Honey, you're nowhere near fabulous enough to wear skinny jeans. They're just a little more form fitting than your usual monstrosities, okay?' I glance at the jeans dubiously. 'And don't you dare spoil the outfit by wearing _that _over it.' You point to my letterman, which I cling at defensively. 'It _puts on_ two sizes.'

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

I've got to admit, I look pretty hot. You weren't lying when you said the jeans weren't skinnies, but they're just tight enough that you can actually see the outline of my legs and – good god – my ass, which looks rather smokin', if I do say so myself. As for the shirt, well, it's a bit too tight for my liking, but I don't look as chubby as I think I usually do. Like with Rachel, you've somehow managed to make me look better without really changing my look. At least, without making me look gay. It's a little surprising, since I would have thought you'd jump at the chance to put me in skinny jeans and bow ties.

Oh, and true to my word, I'm not wearing my letterman jacket. I feel almost naked without it, but you did have a point when you said it added two sizes. I actually stood in the mirror this morning, woefully trying to make it look good, but it just made me look bigger than I really am. I guess that's kind of the point – the jacket acts as kind of a shield.

I never thought that clothes could make such a difference. I swear I'm walking taller today, and girls are turning their heads as I make my way down the corridor. When I get to my locker, a Cheerio leans next to me and smiles flirtatiously. I smile back, slightly wary as we make small talk and I try to remember her name.

Luckily, we're soon interrupted by a male Cheerio whose name I do half remember; Lance something. He slips his arm through hers in a way that does _not_ say "we're a couple" and as he greets me, I see his eyes flick up and down. He's _checking me out._ I'm not sure which is more shocking, that there's another gay guy at this school, or that he's checking me out.

I can't _wait_ to see you. To watch your shocked face because even though you picked the clothes, you haven't seen the full effect yet. Maybe even to see _your_ eyes checking me out.

Impatient, I walk to your locker on the other corridor. You're on time as usual, putting some books in and closing the door. I approach with a smile, but it drops as soon as I realize your phone is in your hand.

'Hey, Kurt.' I say, my voice strained. You smile and reply with a 'hi,' but you don't look up.

'Well, they aren't skinny jeans.' I try to make conversation, 'Guess you were right.'

'I always am.' You comment with your eyes still fixed on the screen. It flashes and you let out a small laugh at whatever it says.

You're still texting Blaine. I can tell because you have that sappy look on your face, the one your get when we watch movies together and there's a hot guy. Why the hell do you have to get that look _now,_ while talking to _him? _

Why can't you look at me with that expression?

I can barely even think; white-hot rage is flowing through me, and before I know it, your phone is on the floor. You look up at me in horror and confusion, and I can't stand to see it. My feet are moving and I can't stop, I'm practically running into the locker room.

'_Hey!' _But you're following me. (Of course you're following me. I'm your _friend_ and I just knocked your phone out of your hands in a fit of inexplicable anger.) You're shouting: 'I'm _talking _to you!'

You're furious. Your voice has risen half an octave, but it's got that _tone_ to it, like a husky old lady being denied her pension. '_What_ is your _problem_? I thought we were _over_ this!' You've followed me all the way to the locker room, where I'm standing at my locker, staring intently at its contents. Anything to stop myself from looking at you.

'Over what?' I say into the locker. The quiet fear of my voice stands against your powerful delivery.

'You know what, Dave! You _know_! _What_ are you so _scared _of?'

And then I'm looking at you, staring at you, your face red and your eyebrows furrowed, eyes full of ruthless daring.

Like a dam breaking, every feeling I've repressed over the last few months swells up within me and it _hurts,_ it fucking hurts so bad. I can't help the tidal wave of emotions that floods over me, and my eyes close in fear of what I'll do, what I could do to _you,_ so bold and angry and precious.

I want to hit something. I need to hit something, I need to break down and destroy something before these feelings explode and _god, _I'm so scared, Kurt, you can't even understand how scared I am, scared of you, scared of _me,_ scared of what I could _do. _

'Don't _push_ me, Kurt! _Don't push me!_ You don't understand! I'll _hurt_ you!' It wouldn't take much, you know. You're so small, so lithe, even though you're a guy. Someone like me could break you in a heartbeat.

And yet you're standing there with that confidence_,_ like you know exactly what I'm going to do next. How can you? I don't even know myself. I could kick the crap out of you or break into tears, I have no idea.

'You gonna hurt me? Going to be the big man and beat up the gay kid? That's what you want to do, right? That's what a _normal _guy would do! So do it; hit me. _Hit_ me!_'_ It's a dare. A challenge. As if me hurting you physically would _prove _something, prove that I'm capable of hurting you. Prove that I don't have feelings for you. You're bluffing, you must be. You can't know that I wouldn't hurt you, you can't.

'Hit me, 'cause it won't change who I am! I know I'm not what you _want_ me to be but I can't change! I'm not a girl_,_ Dave, I'm not! And I'm not going to magically transform into one anytime soon! So either accept what you are, Dave, or hit me and get it over with!' You're shaking, with rage, fear? You look braced, waiting for my fist.

What _am_ I afraid of?

When it comes down to it, it's just _myself_ that scares me.

I don't know what I am, Kurt. I know what I feel and I know why I feel it, but that doesn't make it _me_. It can't. I can't be like you. But I want to be, I want to be strong and out and to be able to hold your hand where the world can see.

My fist connects with the locker beside me as I let out a groan. I can't hurt you. I can't break whatever the fuck it is that we have because it's all I have; _you're_ all I have.

'I knew it! You're too scared!' You're shaking your head and your finger points at me accusingly. 'You can't even push me away! You are nothingbut a scared little boy who can't handle how _extraordinary_ you are-'

And then I'm kissing you.

I'm _kissing_ you. My hands move to cup your face and I'm kissing you.

For a moment, you're frozen. You don't move, don't respond and I panic because I think I've done the wrong thing. What am I saying hell yeah I've done the wrong thing what am I doing I should totally stop.

I pull back immediately and my heart sinks when I see your expression. You look shell-shocked, as if I actually had punched you.

I can't help but let out a little whine before I throw up my arms. 'I'm sorry, I sho-'

But my words are cut off as you grab the back of my head and crush our lips together again.

I wish I were eloquent enough to describe the kiss. Then I'd be able to use complex similes and metaphors and shit to compare it to the moon or the stars, or something.

But really, that's all bullshit.

It isn't like stars colliding. It isn't like time is frozen. It's not even like every dream I've ever had is coming true. It's more like my stomach is about to explode. It's the kind of feeling that makes you want to jump up and down and _squeal_, no matter how dignified or mature you are. It's like taking the first bite of a delicious meal. It's like winning a football game, or hearing the applause at the end of a Glee number, like seeing your face light up when I tell a joke.

It's so very human. It's so very real. It's so very _you._

Even though it's in a sweaty, hot locker room in the middle of the school. Even though it's been preceded by a shouting match.

In its imperfection, it's absolutely, heart-wrenchingly, fucking perfect.

I tuck a stray stand of hair behind your ear, our lips moving in unison. Your eyes are closed and it's hard to keep mine open but I want to see you, to make sure this is okay, to make sure you want this, to remind myself that this is actually happening.

It feels so right. As if this is how it's meant to be. You taste a little like Caesar dressing and toothpaste, your hands are wrapped around my waist and your mouth is moving, pressing hard against me like you can't believe it either, like you want it to last forever just I like I do.

Kissing you feels so fucking right, and I've never felt more scared in my whole life. There are all these feelings and desires and I never want this kiss to end, which scares me even more because _this_ is what a kiss is supposed to feel like. Not that impassionate smooch with Rachel, _this,_ with every ounce of passion I have within me poured into it.

But kissing you is perfect, which means that I am what I feared. There's no way even I can deny it now.

I'm gay.

Fear pierces through me like the cold of an ice bath. 'Kurt… I'm sorry.' My voice comes out as a choke, a whine, a whimper.

And again, I'm pulling back, shaking, on the verge of tears and so damn scared. It's as if every tiny detail that I've been ignoring all this time just hits me square in the face: I'm gay and my whole life is going to change. I'm gay and I'm never going to marry a woman, or have kids the _normal_ way, and everything is going to be that little bit harder. I'm gay, and that means I'm like you and everyone will treat me like dirt and my whole life…everything is different now.

I let out a groan as I pull back, pushing you away.

You stare at me and the feelings spike, which is so _wrong._ I can't be different, I can't be gay, I can't be you. I can't, I can't…that's not me, I'm not gay, I'm normal. I'm normal, I'm normal, I'm fucking _normal._ As I flee the locker room, I repeat it like a mantra.

Because if I say it enough times, it might just come true.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'Excuse me.' I manage to avoid you for nearly the whole day. I only have two classes left now, and I'm _so close_ to getting away when you catch me on the stairs.

No, not just you. _Him_, too. Blaine.

And with that, every fear I have multiplies tenfold. Because you called him here, which means you're _close_ to each other, which means you trust him and suddenly _I'm_ the other guy, I'm the third wheel. All this time I've been your closest friend, but now I've been replaced by this fucking oily haired _git._ I'm a stupid, closeted, confused asshole who kissed you and ran away and now I've driven you into the arms of another guy.

'Kurt and I would like to talk to you.' _Kurt and I._ Oh, god, it's already happening, isn't it? You've become a _couple._ It's not Dave and Kurt any more, or even just Kurt, it's Kurt and Blaine.

'I've gotta go to class.' I glare notably at you and you look away. Blaine doesn't move, so I shove him aside and continue down the stairs.

'Kurt told me what you did.' Blaine says, and I freeze. _No._ You wouldn't have; I don't believe him.

'Oh yeah, what was that?' I reply, feigning ignorance. I can feel my blood boiling, my heart racing as thoughts dart through my head. No, no, you _wouldn't _have. We're supposed to be friends, you wouldn't have told him, a complete stranger…

'You kissed me.'

I don't deny it; I don't even try. Instead, I look up at you and say the only thing I can think about.

'You told _him?'_ I feel so angry, so betrayed, so hurt. The world is fading around me and there's just me and you and _him_ and I'm so _angry._

_Count slowly to ten. One….two…._

'It seems like you might be a little confused.' Fuck this, I'm not listening to another word. 'And that's totally normal.'

_Three….four…_

Fuck him. Fuck you. Who the _fuck _does he think he is, calling this _normal?_ My feelings for you are anything but _normal. _All of this, any of it, it's not fucking normal and it never will be and that's the problem, isn't it? I keep walking.

_Five….six…_

'This is a very hard thing to come to terms with and you should just know that you're not alone.'

_Seven…not _alone? Not fucking alone?

All of my anger-management lessons fly out of my head and before I know it, I have Blaine pinned against the fence.

'Do _not _mess around with me!' I half expect you to leap to the little prick's defense but you're just standing there, looking like you're about to cry. 'You have _no _idea! You don't know what it's like – I'm in the fucking _football_ team! Guys like me aren't…aren't…' I can't say it. I can't say that word.

'Dave, you have to stop this!' Suddenly, I feel your hands on me, pulling me back. Blaine stumbles forwards, gasping. I might have been holding him a little tighter than I meant to.

I step back and stare at the two of you, standing together. _Kurt and I._ I guess he's already moved in on you, picking up the pieces after I broke you. I don't say anything else; just walk away as quickly as I can.

I've been walking for five minutes before I look up and realize I'm in the locker room. It's empty now, since everyone's in class (I vaguely recall that I'm missing American History again. Mr. Matthews is going to hate me.) It smells of feet and sweat, but I can think here; it's quiet.

_'David Karofsky!'_ Or maybe not.

I glance towards the door to where you're standing and feel a strong sense of déjà vu. Huh, you must have followed me the whole way here. You actually waited until we were somewhere out of the public eye, too. How considerate.

The stupid blazer is gone, I notice. I can't think of anything to say to you, except, 'Why the hell did you bring _him_?'

'Because, he's like us, Dave!'

'Us?' No, that's not right. There isn't an us, not any more. There's a you and a me and there's no us. 'I'm not like you, Kurt, I'm _not!_ I don't care if my hair is messed up, or if my clothes don't match! I'm not beautiful like you are; I'm just an average guy! I like sports and cars and getting my hands dirty!'

'And you think that makes you straight?' I don't miss the mocking tone in your voice.

'It makes me _normal!_' I choke out, my voice already breaking with unfalling tears.

'Does it make you happy?' You counter in a heartbeat. Your face is full of anger and pain and pity. I don't know which is the worst.

I don't reply. You're right. You're always right, and it hurts so much to admit it because it _doesn't _make me happy, living like this. Denying myself the things I love because they're too _gay._ Hell, I wouldn't have even joined Glee is Mr. Schue hadn't blackmailed me into it. I would have continued with my life, with my feelings and eventually I would have snapped.

I would have snapped. And god only knows what I would have done, because I know I would have blamed you for everything. Maybe I would have hurt you.

'Kurt, I-'

'It's not all about you, Dave.' You say softly, 'Blaine said-'

_And it was going so well,_ I think, as jealousy claws my stomach again.

'You _like_ him, don't you? That's why you brought him here, so you could _bond_ with him over poor sad Dave!' I spit out, my fists clenching unconsciously.

'Oh, would you _shut up!' _You bristle. Your face burns bright red, but in anger, not embarrassment. 'I do _not _like him, do you think I would have kissed you if I did?' I tense, maybe because you told me to shut up, or maybe because you brought up the kiss.

But then…you just said _you_ kissed _me._ So it wasn't just me imagining it. It really did happen. You kissed me back. You wanted me, like I want you. And now I've gone and fucked it all up.

'I'm sorry.' You say, suddenly standing. You must have realized that the kiss is not what I want to be thinking about. 'I should have realized you probably don't want to talk to me right now. I'll leave you alone.' You walk to the door, and then turn.

I force myself to look up at you; your teary eyes, your face red from storming after me. Before you can say anything, I look away, but that doesn't mean I don't hear your final words before you leave:

'You know, before yesterday, I'd never been kissed.'

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_

* * *

_**(A/N: Oh, did I forget to mention this was a mix of Hairography and Never Been Kissed? Oops! ;D)**_


	11. Sectionals

Hello, my darlings! Well, I'm finally finished with my Big Bang fic, so I have time to work on this again! It's just great to get back to it at last, and thank you guys for waiting :D**  
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**Rating:** M for swearing.

**Warnings: **None, really, other than swearing and teeth-rotting fluff. **  
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**Disclaimer: **If I owned Glee, this fic would be canon and therefore wouldn't exist.

**Notes: **As always, thank you all for your reviews and favorites and support! You guys are just amazing for sticking by me even though I take so long to ustpdate!**  
**

Enjoy!

* * *

**Mattress/Sectionals**

It's clear we need to talk, but neither of us will admit it. I'm not sure which of us is more stubborn, but we're not budging.

I very nearly apologize. I get pretty damn close, but when I approach you, I see you on your phone (not a scratch on it, thank god, or I'd feel even worse) with that bloody look on your face again, obviously texting that gel-headed git. Instead of saying sorry, I knock you with my shoulder as I pass, ignoring your glare.

Things don't improve. Every time I see you around or in Glee practice, I'm flooded with panic and end up doing something stupid. You walk in my direction at one point, and I freeze, spin round and stride off the other way. It's almost pathetic. No, no, it's definitely pathetic. Why am I so scared of facing you?

Oh, right, yeah. The whole being in the closet thing.

At this point, I'm torn. Half of me is terrified to go near you because I know I'll do something or say something that will make it impossible for me to deny who I am any longer. But then there's another part, a more powerful part, which just wants to wrap you in my arms, jump in a pool of rainbow glitter and let it all out.

Funnily enough, the first part is currently winning in the logical solutions department.

Of course, to add further insult to injury, Glee club is once again making its sole mission in life to humiliate me. Thanks to Coach Sylvester, Figgins has decided that Glee don't get a picture in this year's _Thunderclap,_ which as far as I'm concerned is the best idea Figgins has ever had. Only, Schue is arguing against it, which once again brings me back to humiliation highway.

I just don't get why we can't be _anonymous. _Why we have to stand out all the time and be so proud to be different and all that shit? What if I'm not proud to be different? What if I want to live my life as a member of the herd and not get the shit beaten out of me? Fuck, I want to be normal, why doesn't anyone get that?

And it's all very well for Rachel to be all proud of being a freak, but she's not the one who's going to get sharpied by her own friends. This, of course, being an inevitability, as Azimio so kindly informs me during today's practice.

'The system's put in place to keep order around here.' he says, and something about it sounds almost mournful. Because I know he doesn't really want to do this, but he_ has_ to, the same way I have to laugh at sex jokes and buy _Playboy _magazines every so often.

'Yeah, I know.'

'And if I don't join in on the guys messing up that photo, they'll kick my ass too.'

I let out a soft snort, 'Dude, you might as well do it, everyone else will.' It's true; Azimio standing up to everyone won't achieve anything. Heck, it will probably make things worse; at least with Azimio in a position of semi-popularity, I can avoid greater threats, like swirlies and patriotic wedgies.

'Oh, I intend to.' He reassures me, 'But man, I have a very serious question for you.'

I immediately panic. Is he going to ask me about my sexuality? I know he knows to an extent, I mean, he's hinted at it enough, but we don't talk about it. It's a taboo subject and neither of us has brought it up. That's kind of how I'd like to keep it. But we're in kind of a private spot, the kind of place you'd go to talk without being overheard.

Azimio takes a deep breath, and stares at me very hard in the eye. 'Do you want buck teeth on your Glee Club photo, or do you want a Hitler mustache on your Glee Club photo? 'Cause I'll do both, it doesn't matter to me.' For a moment, I don't know what to say, then a laugh bursts out of me and after a few seconds we're both laughing hysterically and I couldn't even tell you why, the situation is just so ridiculous.

'The Hitler mustache.' I eventually say, between laughs. 'If I'm going to have the piss taken out of me, I might as well look like one of the most evil men in history while it happens. Besides, I can't rock the buck tooth look.' Azimio grins at me sympathetically. No matter what he says, I know he feels really bad about this. I can read him pretty easily by now and I can tell he's conflicted. But at least if I make him think I don't care, he can do it and not feel too guilty about it.

Plus, it might soften him up a little for what I'm going to ask next.

'Look, dude, I was wondering…' I swallow hard, 'Okay, I'm free game. Do whatever you want to me on that photo. But could you try and get the guys to take it easy on Kurt? I mean, if we actually get a picture. It's just…he's had a pretty tough time recently and…it would just mean a lot if the word _fag_ wasn't written across his face in sharpie, you know?'

'It won't be easy. But…I guess I could convince them to leave it at the tits and skirt.'

I roll my eyes and pull a face simultaneously, 'Wow, tasteful.'

Azimio shrugs in response, 'You gotta admit, he does look kind of like a girl.'

_'Dude! _Don't talk about him like that!' Before I think about it, I've shoved him in the shoulder and he's shoved me right back, but with this weird mocking smile on his face.

'Whoa, no need to get so defensive.' He teases, and I feel my face burn almost immediately.

'I'm _not_ getting defensive!' For some reason, that sends Azimio into another fit of laughter, but he sobers up pretty fast and starts to look uncomfortable. I know what he's about to say before he even says it.

'So are you and him…well, you know. Uh…a _thing?'_ He asks, very quietly, meshing his fingers together in a strange attempt to act out the word _couple_. The familiar rush of panic surges through me again.

'No! We're not anything! We're just friends! Not even friends right now, he's actually not talking to me. Well, I'm not talking to him either. We're mutually not talking to each other.'

There's a raised eyebrow and a look of disbelief. 'Dude, I told you, I don't have a problem with it. You can talk to me, we're bros, remember?' I shake my head softly as he says it. I know that he means it but…I don't know that he really _means_ it. God, I'm not even making sense any more. Azimio apparently senses my internal struggle, and narrows his eyes in confusion. 'So you're not talking? Last week you were attached at the freaking hip! What happened?'

I'm really not sure if I want to tell Azimio. I mean, I do trust him and he's the closest friend I have but still…I just _know_ he won't understand. How could he? When it comes down to it, he's always going to be _Azimio,_ right?

'Dude, I said you can tell me. Did you fuck up?'

I take a deep breath and prepare to lie my ass off. I think of every possible reason that would ensure my heterosexuality. But even as I open my mouth to speak, I find myself saying something else. 'I kissed him.'

_That_ throws Azimio a little. His shoulders stiffen slightly, but I can tell he's actually trying to be cool about it. Then, after a few seconds to recover, he says, 'So…for sure, you _are…_'

'I don't _know._' I run a hand through my hair and try not to sound pathetic. He sends me a look of sympathy and what looks like attempted understanding.

'Well? How was it? Did he, you know…like it?' He seems a little uncomfortable at the mental image, but he's doing a good job of hiding it.

'I think so. I mean, he…well, he kissed me back, but then I freaked out and ran off and now…tell me again why I'm telling you all this?' I slump onto a bench and put my head in my hands. Azimio stares for a moment, and then settles beside me.

'Because I'm your best friend and your fag hag Berry is a gossip so you don't trust her?' He suggests, but it's not as sarcastic now; his tone is softer and more sympathetic. It's not an attitude he uses a lot.

'Right. Wait, how did you know about Rachel?'

'Dude, you're my best friend. I keep pretty close tabs on you.' Another knowing smile. Seriously, I worry about Azimio sometimes. I wonder if he's really a lot smarter than he lets on. Maybe he's secretly a robot. Yeah, that would be cool.

'I'm not sure if that's endearing or creepy.' I answer eventually. He laughs at me. Perhaps not a robot, then.

'Whatever, man! So what did you do?' He leans forward slightly, like he's raring himself for some juicy gossip. Apparently my love life, or lack thereof, is as amusing as this week's episode of _NCIS. _

'Uh, well, he brought a friend,' I try not to sound too bitter as I say that word, 'to speak to me about being… uh, you know.'

'And that didn't go well?'

'I may have attacked him a little bit.' I admit. I scratch the back of my head as Azimio regards me, not judgmentally. He's the last person to criticize someone for thinking with their fists.

'Right. So you and Fancy aren't talking now?'

'Pretty much.' We fall silent, and then I let out a frustrated groan, burying my head in my hands.

'You want my advice?' Azimio suddenly says, after a few minutes of quiet.

I sigh, shrug, and wave an absent hand in the air, 'Sure. Why not? Things can't possibly get much worse.'

'Okay. Well, honestly? Most of the guys on the team already think you're gay. Not _seriously,_ but if it wasn't for me, and the fact that you're stronger than most of them put together, you'd be getting dumpster tossings every morning.'

'Your point being?' I push, staring at Azimio with my eyebrows furrowed. He isn't saying…he couldn't be…

'Why not just…you know…' he coughs quietly and lowers his voice, '_come out?'_

Okay. I wasn't expecting _that._ Azimio is telling me to come out? _Azimio_ wants me to come out?

'What the _hell,_ dude? I can't do that!'

'Why not? You get the shit ripped out of you anyway, it might as well be for a proper reason! I'm not saying the guys will be cool about it, but you still have friends in the Glee club, right?'

'Oh yeah? And what about you? You're telling me that you'll stand by me when the rest of the team shuns me for being a fag?'

He pauses to think, and I know I've got him. Azimio may be my best friend, and it's all good saying that I should go around waving rainbow flags in theory, but when it comes down to it, he has his own reputation to think about. I mean, he may care about me, but that's not going to stop him drawing on my face in permanent marker. 'I don't… I don't know, dude. I'm sorry. You're the closest thing to a brother I've ever had, you know? I just…'

I stare at him and there's so much pain in those dark brown eyes that I feel a pang of guilt. Azimio is genuinely trying to help me. He cares about me like I'm his brother. And it's not _fair_ that standing by me would fuck up his life, even though he's got nothing to be ashamed of. It's not fair that he'd be subject to just as much hate as I would be, hate by association.

I can't lose Azimio. Sure, he's a crazy prick with an obsession with bad detective shows and a temper problem, but he's my best friend in spite of and because of all those things. I just can't lose that.

That's the first time today I run away from someone I care about.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

Rachel approaches me later that day. It turns out that Mr. Schue was able to get us a photo, but only a small one, which means only two of us can be in it. And she wants me to be in it with her_. _Because _that_ sounds like something I'd want to do. Right up there with drawing a giant fucking target on my back in permanent marker, or walking through school dressed entirely in rainbow colored clothing.

'David, you need to be in the photo! You're our leader!' Ugh, damn this girl. When I signed up for the fag hag scheme, no one told me I'd actually have to contribute. I thought I just had to brush her hair and help her pick outfits every so often whilst taking part in meaningless boy talk and gossip.

'Can't you ask Finn? I thought you guys were dating now that you got him back in the club.' I plead with her. My rep is in freefall, if what Azimio was saying is true. Why add fuel to the flames?

'We are. Well, I think we are.' God knows what's going on with their relationship. After I filled my part of the bargain, I've stepped away from both of them and I never intend on getting involved again. 'Anyway, Finn doesn't want to be in the photo, he told me to ask you.'

I let out a frustrated groan. I am _not _a substitute boyfriend. That's not the point of this friendship! '_I _don't want to be in the photo, Rachel. I don't want my face drawn on by my own friends!'

'David, don't you see? This is a golden opportunity to show them that you don't care about them making fun of you! It's time to start embracing your true self, and this will ease the transition.'

'Embrace my…what is that supposed to mean?'

Rachel seems to ignore me completely, waving her hands, 'I'm just saying that I think this will make it easier to come out.' Oh, for god's_ sake,_ not her too.

'Who the hell said anything about coming out? I'm…I'm not…'

'I _know,_ David, you don't have to pretend with me.' She tries to sound reassuring but it doesn't work; instead she just sounds a little patronizing.

'Will you just can it? I don't want to be in the photo! I don't want to have the shit ripped out of me and I'm _not_ coming out_…_I'm sorry, Rachel. But you're going to have to find someone else.'

This is the second time. This time, I just leave her behind, sniffing slightly in an attempt to make me feel guilty. Well, screw her; it's time for Glee anyway. I deliberately sit as far away from her as possible.

I'm a terrible mood by the time Glee actually starts, even though you sit next to me and try and make contact by asking me if I'm okay. I ignore you, because I'm stupid like that.

And then Mr. Schue has to walk on in and make everything so much worse.

'I have a new assignment for you this week.' The room inwardly groans collectively. 'Look, you guys, I was really quite shocked at how ashamed you guys are of being in Glee club!' He says, sounding the way he always does when he starts on his rants. 'You guys seem to want to hide away in the background, because you're afraid people will hate you.'

'People _do _hate us, Mr. Schue.' I cut in, sounding as depressed as I feel. 'Everyone hates us. My own friends are going to draw a Hitler mustache on me.'

'That's not the point! I want you to be proud to be in Glee club. So this week, we're not hiding. This week, we're going to do a number right out in the open, in the cafeteria tomorrow lunchtime.'

Oh, no. He _has _to be kidding. We can't perform in the cafeteria. The _cafeteria, _where the whole school has lunch. Where everyone will see us and judge us, all the while in arm's reach of deadly weapons in the form of cafeteria food.

'No freaking _way.'_ I say, before I can stop myself. I'm echoed by a few other members in the team, including Mercedes' _"Oh, hell to the no!" _with her usual sassy deliverance. Mr. Schue, of course, zeroes in on me.

'David?' He calls my name oh-so-condescendingly, as if he's talking to a small child. Well, fuck him too. I'm not an idiot. I know how things work around here and singing in front of the whole school on their own turf, in an environment where they're not forced to watch us? It's the worst idea ever.

'We can't do that! People will throw _food_ at us! We'll be a laughing stock!' I glance around to see a couple of nods in agreement.

Mr. Schue doesn't take the hint, 'We've performed in front of people before.' he argues.

'On a _stage.'_ Santana interrupts. 'Going all Glee in the cafeteria is something else.'

'Yeah, Mr. Schue.' Artie joins in the conversation too, 'Being anonymous has kept us safe so far, why would we want to go all public?'

'Because I'm sick of you guys thinking you're losers! I'm tired of you being ashamed of being in this Club. All of you are so talented, you don't need to hide.'

'Being talented isn't going to stop the football team from turning us into slushie snowmen!' I shout, a little too loudly, and suddenly I'm on my feet.

Mr. Schue just gives me that weird patronizingly sympathetic look, and continues his little feel-good Lady Gaga-esque message for today, 'Dave, you can't hold back from doing something you're good at because you're scared of what people will think.' Oh, if only he knew how accurate that statement is. 'You should be proud of who you are, no matter what response you get.'

That's it. I've had enough. _Fuck _Mr. Schue and fuck Glee club. Nobody gives a _shit_ if my life is screwed up as long as I'm "proud"? Well, fuck that. I don't want to be proud, I was to be fucking _normal,_ is that too much to ask?

'Screw this!' I shout, stepping back, 'I'm sick of all of you telling me to express myself and embrace my true feelings and all that shit! I never even wanted to be in this freaking club to start with!'

You're staring up at me with wide, maybe even scared eyes, and I can see your hand reaching up to me. I want to take it, I want to so much, but I can't. I just can't.

I storm past Mr. Schue on the way out.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'You quit?' Azimio gazes at me like I just told him I'd grown an extra head. 'Just like that?' It's the next day, lunchtime, and I look like hell because I barely slept last night. Glee being after school on Thursdays, I drove home immediately, switched off my phone, locked myself in my room and played _Call Of Duty_ until I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open. Even then, I lay awake in my bed, panicking, worrying, and above all, torturing myself with possibilities.

What if I _did_ come out?

'Yeah, I did. Shouldn't you be happy? Now we can go on being bros without people calling you a fag.' God, I hate that word. I hate it and what it means and what it means to _me. _

'Hey! Dude, I was the one who told you it would be okay to…' he trails off uncomfortably, and shakes his head, 'Look, let's just forget about it and get lunch.'

'Can't.' I mutter, and at his confused glance, 'Glee club is doing a big performance in there today.'

'You're really pathetic, you know that?' He groans, grabbing my arm and dragging me in. There's no one from Glee there at the moment, which probably only means there'll be a big entrance at some point.

I'm right. Just after I get food and sit down, the music starts and the Glee club filters in to the overly bouncy music of Cockney Rebel's _Make Me Smile._ It's even more upbeat than the original and I can't help but wonder how that's even possible. I remember briefly that _smile_ was the theme of the week, probably connected with the whole photo thing.

Of course, the performance is amazing, as usual, but the cafeteria hardly appreciates it. I half expect a full-on food fight to start, but it's really quite anti-climatic. There's a little scattered applause, but most people just ignore the singing group.

It's funny how the more Glee club tries to stand out, the more they get overlooked. But when one member does something just a little bit outside the norm, everyone goes insane. I guess people expect us as a group to be freaks, but can't quite accept that each individual is equally freakish.

I'd like to say I'm resolved and strong; leaving Glee Club behind and never looking back, but that would be a lie. I sneak into the next practice and watch, and yeah, I'm already regretting leaving. Just seeing you dancing around makes me want to crawl back to Glee club and grovel and beg that they take me back. I wish I could be proud of who I am, to prance around being a freak and be happy about it. I really wish I didn't have to quit Glee just to feel normal.

But when being around you makes me feel like this, what other choice do I have?

I can't look at you without my insides just turning to mush. Every time I hear you speak, fear sparks through me, as if I think you're just going to say at any minute, "hey, Dave kissed me." You have such an effect on me that my best friend figured out I'm not straight. Because of _you. _Oh, jeez, now I sound like some cheesy teenage girl singer.

I don't know what I want anymore. I want you and I want to be with you, but I don't want things to change, I don't want everything to go to shit around me. I've never envied Finn and Puck so much, hell, all the guys who can date whatever girls they want with no need to worry about being ostracized. Why can't it be the same for me, just because I happen to be…to like you, rather than Rachel or Quinn?

Why can't I like Rachel or Quinn? It would make things so much _easier. _

'Hey.' I jolt upright in shock as I suddenly feel you slip into the seat next to me. I didn't even notice the group clearing the stage. 'What, you think I didn't see you? No offense, Dave, but never become a spy.'

I don't smile like I usually would. Instead, I draw my arms across my chest defensively.

'Okay, I'm going to cut a deal with you here. We're going to have to talk about that kiss someday, David, and probably soon, before you explode.'

I let out a grunt like a wounded Neanderthal, but say nothing, so you continue.

'But I don't want to screw up our chances at Sectionals by pushing you into a mental breakdown. Clearly, you have issues you need to work through, but I'm willing to wait to talk about this until after next week.'

I snap my head around to look at you. You're staring at me intensely. 'Seriously?' I ask, slightly dubious. I can't believe that you'd just set everything aside for the sake of your friends and a show choir competition, even though you must be dying to know exactly what was going through my head.

'Yes.' You say, firmly. 'So, you're going to come back to Glee club, join in our quest for fame in a mattress commercial, and we're going to forget that you kissed me and act…' you scrunch your nose up distastefully, '_normal_ for the next week.'

'That sounds like a good deal to me.'

'However, after Sectionals, we are going to talk about this. Whatever _this_ is. We're going to talk it through like responsible adults and you are going to have to come to terms with your issues before you lose it and end up really hurting someone. Deal?'

I pause, staring up at you and thinking about how much I want to kiss you right now.

God, you're right, I have to come to terms with this. I can't live in this limbo forever, not when I spend most of my day thinking about you. Not when I want to be with you. Not when there's even the slightest possibility that I _could_ be with you.

'Deal.' I echo, and as you turn to leave, I grab your hand. 'Kurt, I'm…I'm just so freaking sorry.' I say, my voice cracking slightly. 'I didn't mean to hurt you.'

'I know.' Your eyes are teary too, and you squeeze my hand. 'I know.'

And then, before I can even think about what to reply with, you lean in and place a feathery light kiss on my lips. 'Until next week.' You whisper, patting my shoulders. 'I'll wait for you.'

And with that, you flounce away, as I try to stop myself from crying.

Next week. Next week, I have to deal with this. Next week, I have to look myself in the mirror and say _Dave, you like dudes._ Next week, I have to say the g-word out loud and know that I'm talking about myself.

But not now. For now, I can experience my last week in utter denial. For now, I have to watch you from a distance, wishing I could be with you. For now, I can fit in and walk down the corridor without getting _fag_ hissed at me. For now, I can feel like I'm normal and know it's a complete and utter lie.

For now, we have a competition to win.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

Okay, to cut a very long story short, let's just say that the mattress commercial idea? Not a good one.

Thanks to whoever's idea it was (my bet's on Rachel,) we've now lost Mr. Schue. Miss Pillsbury turned up at the last minute, so we have _someone _to take us there_,_ and it's not like we don't have everything rehearsed impeccably, but it's still unnerving.

Our set list consists of _Don't Stop Believing, Proud Mary_ and _And I Am Telling You, _sang by Mercedes after a furious argument between her and Rachel. I stood at the back and tried to stay out of it.

There's a tension between us that wasn't there before, but it's okay, because we both know it'll be resolved soon. I keep reaching to touch you before realizing that just because you know I have feelings for you, doesn't mean you reciprocate, or even that you're okay with them.

Of course, Mr. Schue's absence also causes a pressure that's hard to ignore. You won't sit next to me on the bus, instead opting to sit by Mercedes. I end up next to Puck, Matt and Mike at the back of the bus, which isn't so bad because we talk about football for most of the journey and I don't have to try hard to make conversation. The bus is pretty quiet for the most part, since we're all nervous as hell. Not quite the exciting trip we were all prepared for. Not that it's a long excursion anyway, maybe an hour or two.

When we get there, the butterflies in all of our stomachs turn to little birds. We take our places for the first performance: The Warblers.

Of course, they're pretty awesome, starting with _Hey Soul Sister. _Blaine sings the lead, unsurprisingly, and whilst they sound good, they're not remarkable. Some blond guy with emo hair has a solo, and he's okay too, but nothing on Mercedes. Still, the audience loves them, which leaves us glancing at each other worriedly.

And then disaster strikes.

Jane Addams comes on, and as their music starts, I feel a damning sense of déjà vu. The song they're performing is the same one Mercedes had a few days earlier – _And I Am Telling You. _

Mercedes looks like she's about to annihilate someone with her bare hands, but Rachel leans over her and tells her it's a really popular song, assuming it's a coincidence. I'm not so sure; in fact, there's a growing sense of dread in my gut.

As Jane Addams roll on in wheelchairs, I know I'm right. The beginning of Proud Mary fills the stadium, and rage floods my veins. Not only are they stealing our songs, they're _spitting_ on all the hard work we'd done in those wheelchairs, all the effort we'd made to let Artie know how much we appreciated him. Those _bitches. _

I don't stick around to find out if they're performing _Don't Stop Believing, _but apparently they don't. Rachel and I fume together in the green room before Miss Pillsbury rushes in, looking as panicked as I feel, and the rest of the Glee club flusters in after her.

'They're doing our songs! Jane Addams are doing our songs!' Miss Pillsbury is squeaking into a phone, assumingly to Mr. Schue. 'No, we still have _Don't Stop Believing,_ but we've lost _And I Am Telling You _and_ Proud Mary_!'

'Okay, okay. They're going to have to find new songs.' Mr. Schue says through the loudspeaker of her mobile. We all turn to stare at each other with identical expressions of utter terror. Preparation isn't exactly our forte, and it's not like we have backup songs picked out.

'Perhaps I can improvise some of my def poetry jams.' Arties suggests, and Tina beside him gives him an incredulous look.

I sigh, and crack my knuckles, giving my best leader face. 'Look, guys, we've done plenty of songs this year – let's just perform the best ones we did and Mike, Brittany and Matt can refresh us on the dance moves.'

'We should go with _Somebody to Love,_' Quinn proposes, 'It's a real crowd pleaser.'

'Yes!' Rachel agrees, probably partly because that was one of her songs in the first place. 'And the ballad? Mercedes, do you have anything else in your repertoire?'

'Yeah, but it's nothing as good as what you're going to sing.'

Rachel shakes her head, 'No, we agreed.'

'We agreed that I would sing _And I Am Telling You.'_ Mercedes says, sounding almost close to tears, 'And that 'aint happening. Look, the truth is, you're the best singer that we've got.

'As much as it hurts to admit it – and it _does –_ she's right.' You cut in, sounding very reluctant, 'Rachel's our star. If anyone's going to go belt it on the fly, it should be her.'

'Who said anyone has to belt it on the fly?' I interrupt. 'Look, Rachel, you're amazing, but Jane Addams did _And I Am Telling You, _and blondie's performance was pretty standard, even if the Warblers are amazing or whatever. We're doing _Somebody to Love _and _Don't Stop Believing, _some of the most popular songs ever released. We need something _different_.'

Oddly, Rachel doesn't look too offended, 'What do you suggest?' She asks, but the glitter in her eye tells me that she already knows.

'What about _Defying Gravity?_ We rehearsed it and everything. I think it would be the perfect thing to shake up our performance.' You glance at me in surprise, your face flushing. I take that as a good thing.

There's silence for a moment, while everyone ponders it, and then Rachel says, 'Okay.' She beams at you, and you smile nervously back. Everyone else, after a moment to get over the shock of Rachel _not_ being selfish, nods and agrees, and Mercedes snaps you into a hug.

'Well, if I'm going to give up my solo, I want my boy to have it!' She laughs, and then you do a secret handshake thing I can't even begin to understand and there are smiles all around.

I'm the best leader _ever._

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

We spend the next hour running around trying to arrange songs. For _Defying Gravity, _Mike drags you into a corner and shouts instructions at you, (_'None of the sashaying, Kurt!') _Meanwhile, we throw together something for _Somebody to Love,_ and then go over _Don't Stop Believing_ briefly just in case we've forgotten.

We have just over fifteen minutes left until we go on. You're going to start us off with _Defying Gravity_, and we're going to walk in at the end for the dramatic crescendo. Looking around the room, we've all settled into a serene state of absolute panic. Rachel catches my eye, pacing back and forth and singing softly to herself.

'Hey, Rach.' I say, quietly, and she pads over with a faint, nervous smile, 'Thank you. For, you know, giving up the solo.'

'I may be selfish sometimes, but I'm actually a real romantic, you know.' She replies with a smile, and a slight dreamy look in her eyes. I know that look – it's the one you get when you're watching cheesy musicals with random songs and cheesy endings. So maybe you and Rachel are more similar than you'd care to admit. Either that or watching all these musical makes you mushy inside. Hah. That's probably it. I think I'll call it the _Broadway Effect. _

Rachel breaks up my internal monologue by waving a hand in front of my face. 'Just don't screw it up again, okay?' And not for the first time, I think I've underestimated her. The girl can be selflessly kind when she really wants to be.

Of course, it's also probably because she's finally accepted that I'm right: that you performing would give us a higher chance of winning, which of course means there's something in it for her. But still, gotta give the girl a bit of credit, handing over her solo must have _hurt._

She walks over to where Matt, Mike, Santana and Brittany are working out the details for their more complex choreography, whilst I sit down and look through the sheet music for _Don't Stop Believing _just in case I've forgotten anything. It's stupid; we've rehearsed this song a thousand times, but I'm still nervous. I've never performed in front of an audience this big before.

Then again, neither have you, and at least I was prepared for this. You must be scared shitless. Is I look around to find you, I see you slip through the door into the backstage area, and, putting down my sheet music, I follow you.

There's a faint murmuring from the audience area, where a couple of people must be sat ready for the performance, but most people are still enjoying the break. You're staring at the curtain with a look of sheer and utter panic, and when you see me, you bolt to a small side room full of props. I jog after you, and find you sat on a stool, white as a sheet.

'I don't think I can do this. Not in front of all these people.' You say quietly, hands shaking. I stare at you in confusion. Of course you're nervous, but you're Kurt Hummel; you _love_ performing.

'I didn't even want to win the diva-off in the first place!' You draw in a deep breath, and let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan. 'A _girl's _song! In front of all these people, what was I _thinking?_' For a moment, I don't understand what you're talking about, and then I remember what you said before about not wanting to sing a female song because of the negative attention. Okay, sure, so singing Elphaba's (ha! I'm learning) grand solo might be a big statement, even for you, but it's not like you're not used to making big statements.

'Kurt, you pretty much walk around with a sign stating your sexuality on you every day in school, what's the difference?' I mean that both figuratively and literally. I mean, your clothes are a statement in themselves, but having a _fag_ sign stuck on your back every other week makes a pretty big statement too.

'There's a big difference between stating something and shouting it, Dave.' You say, tersely, and then stand and make for the door. I stare at your back as you pull open the door, trying to find the words to say, the words to express how I feel.

And all of a sudden, just like that, I'm _ready_. I know it's been a painfully slow progress, but that's the moment I _know,_ because you're walking away from me and all I can think about is how much it would hurt to lose you. More than Glee Club, more than Azimio, and more than my reputation. I know that I want to be strong for you, to face the school with you, and I know that if you'll have me, it will be fucking worth it.

Okay, so it's a little early and Sectionals isn't technically over yet, but now's the time, I can feel it. Because for once, I actually _want_ to say it, I'm not scared. I'm ready to get on my knees and beg you to be mine. It's time to whisper in your ear that I want to kiss you and hug you and do all the things that wouldn't be appropriate between _just friends._ It's time to confess what you've probably already figured out.

But what do I say? How could I possibly express the way I feel without sounding like an idiot? I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. You're getting further away, and even though I know you'll have to come back to go on stage a few minutes from now, I can sense the moment slipping away and suddenly, without thinking it through, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

'I'm gay!'

Wow. Really _deep_, Dave, congratulations. What kind of guy wouldn't be bowled over by those poetic words?

Still… the moment I say it, I know for sure that it's true. It's not quite a shout but it's loud enough. And you know the weird thing? It wasn't actually that hard to say. The world didn't come crashing down around my shoulders. I didn't magically gain a lisp or Gok Wan's fashion sense. I didn't suddenly transform into a stereotype; I'm still just me.

'I'm gay.' I say again, feeling heat creep up my neck. You turn around, very, very slowly walking back to me, back into the prop room. The door slams shut behind you, and as you stand in front of me again, your expression is one of pure curiosity.

'I like guys. I like kissing guys. I liked kissing _you._' I go on, my face blushing redder and redder as I go. Your mouth twitches into a smile. 'I like you.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that – what did you say you were?' You ask, mischievously, your eyes narrowed slightly in delight.

'I'm _gay_. You know, queer, homosexual, fruity…please tell me to shut up.' Both of us are trying hard to contain laughter, I can tell.

'Say it again.' Your smile has taken over your whole face now, a wide grin with squinting eyes to match.

'I'm ga-ay!' I say, this time in a sing-song voice. And that's it; you explode into giggles and I immediately follow. It's ridiculous. It's always been ridiculous, hiding away, denying myself because of…because of what? Because of a _word?_

'There you go. I've just said it in front of you. I know you're only one person, but you're a thousand times braver than me – don't deny it. So get your gorgeous, perky ass out there and tell them all that you're a flaming homo.' I even add a little lisp in there, with a hint of mocking. Maybe it's the adrenaline, but I can't seem to stop talking, or grinning, for that matter. I feel like…not exactly like a weight has been lifted, but more like someone was standing on my shoulders for years and I finally told them to go fuck themselves.

'Perky _and_ gorgeous? Wow, Dave, you really are gay.' You tease, and fucking hell, it feels good to joke about it. It should be too early but somehow it's not; perhaps because we've both known for so long, so long it's been lingering on the tip of our tongues but suddenly it's _out. _

I'm _out._

'What can I say? I'm the gayest gay that ever gayed.' We laugh again, and I realize how much easier it is to say the word now. (Also, it's kind of losing all meaning, as words do when you say them too much.)

'I don't think so. I'm so much gayer than you. No one can gay like I gay.' You say, puffing out your chest proudly. I play along, clapping a hand to my mouth in mock horror.

'Oh, really? I'm not gay enough for you? Do I have to prove my gay-dom to you now?' I raise an eyebrow playfully, and you collapse into giggles again before drawing yourself back together and putting on that haughty expression, laced with amusement.

'Well,' you say, feigning disinterest, 'that depends on what you're offering up as proo- _oh!'_

I'm pretty sure it's the adrenaline that does it. My lips catch yours quickly, but the kiss is slow, sensual, nothing like the last one. I feel your body relaxing against mine, one hand reaching to my shirt, keeping me in place, the other curling in my hair. I let my arms circle your waist, drawing you closer, pushing our chests together.

I don't know how long it lasts, how long your lips move on mine, how long I run my tongue along your teeth, breathing your scent, tasting your flavor. But as we pull apart, I hear you groan softly and feel your arms fling around my neck, holding me.

'Okay, I believe you.' You say breathily, 'You're the king of all gays.' You're still so close to me, and part of me still wants to pull away and hide in a corner but I quickly tell myself that this is okay. I can do this. I'm _allowed_ to do this.

'In which case, you're my queen.' I quip back almost instantly, and you chuckle at the horrible cliché. Leaning my head against yours, I can taste your breath and see your eyes close up, blown from the adrenaline and whatever other hormones we've ignited.

'In your dreams.' You reply, teasingly, but you haven't let go. It feels amazing and so oddly comfortable to just hold you the way I've been itching to hold you for the last few months. And now I _can._ Because of one word. Why was I so scared of that damn word?

And then the bell rings to call you to stage and we both jump slightly, but you don't pull back. 'Kurt, you have to go on in three minutes.' I warn you.

'We could make out for three minutes.' You reply, and then your face goes bright red as if you didn't really mean to say it. It's pretty forward, even for you. And yeah, it does sound tempting, but I force myself to separate from you. If nothing else, the expression on your face – a deep, desperate longing – proves that you want me as much as I want you.

'Tell you what, if we win, we can make out for thirty minutes.' I suggest, still partly expecting you to reject me, but you smile suggestively, an odd contradiction to your wide eyes and innocently flushed cheeks.

'I like that deal even better than our last one.' You admit, as if you're telling me a very dirty secret.

'Oh yeah, the _after sectionals_ rule. I guess I broke it.'

'I'm not complaining.' You assure me, leaning in to lay a very gentle kiss on my lips. 'I've wanted to do that for so long.' You voice is so full of longing that I have to let go of you before we end up having a make out session on the prop room floor.

'Now get out there and gay it up.' I say, trying to go for the Kurt Hummel voice. It's not a great impression but you giggle anyway, and before I know it, your hands brush against my face and you're close again.

'Say gay again.' You demand, your eyes adorably squinty and your nose scrunched. God, it's hard to resist kissing you again.

'_Gay!_ Now gay, I mean,_ go!'_ I shake my head and you laugh airily, before flouncing out of the room.

I stand there for a few minutes, utterly dazed. I haven't even processed what just happened, but I can feel my heart beating like one of Finn's drums when he's had too much sugar.

I just came out. I came out to you and I kissed you and you didn't push me away and you _like _me the way I like you. You want to be with me the same way I want to be with you. I feel like I could conquer the world right about now. I feel like I could just jump for joy.

Instead, I leave the prom room, stand in the wings with the rest of Glee Club and watch you as you start to sing _Defying Gravity _in front of a thousand people.

I'd like to think that my kiss is part of the reason you perform so amazingly. The crowd loves it, too, even if there were a few whispers at first. And yeah, so we can't hoist you up in true _Wicked _style, but as we all walk in at the end for the harmonies, singing _no one mourns the wicked,_ we sound pretty badass.

Of course, you hit the note, the high F sharp or whatever you told me it was, absolutely spot on.

I let Finn take the male lead for _Somebody to Love,_ but first I front us in _Don't Stop Believing,_ a slightly altered version with Mercedes belting out in the end and everyone getting a little solo time, to shake things up a little. You perform your line with a grin on your face, and I duet with Santana, who smiles at me far too knowingly.

Quinn is, of course, right that _Somebody to Love_ is a crowd pleaser. Practically the whole audience is on their feet by the end, cheering and clapping. The only time I've ever felt happier than this is about ten minutes ago, when we kissed.

We stumble off the stage victorious, grinning and laughing together; the team united again despite the tension between certain members. You press your side against mine and I relish in the small touch and the knowing smiles. If they notice, nobody bats an eyelid when your hand slips into mine.

We're far too exhausted to go out or anything that evening, so with a tentative, private peck on the lips in your car, we part, prepared to wait until tomorrow to see each other again. It seems like an age away. I spend most of the night trying not to phone you, because, c'mon, I can't look _too_ desperate.

Somehow, I end up doing it anyway.

'Dave, it's 2am.' You sound far too alert for me to have woken you up. 'Is everything okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, don't worry. I just…' I trail off because, really, why did I call? Just to hear your voice? Now that sounds pathetic.

'Me too. I can't sleep, I'm too jittery.' You admit, and I feel myself smiling sappily down the phone, suddenly glad you can't see how way too happy I am.

'I can't wait to see you tomorrow.'

'You too. Oh my god, Dave, we are so lame.' We both break into laughter at that, and suddenly I feel much calmer.

I sigh contently, much more sleepy now, 'Yeah, we are. I guess I should let you sleep?'

'You should. Goodnight, Dave.' Your voice is all soft and sweet and it's better than any lullaby by a long shot.

'Night.' I whisper back, and the line goes dead. It doesn't take that long to fall asleep after that.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The next day is fucking torture. I see you in the hall and you smile at me, a smile full of hidden meanings and secrets. All I want to is kiss those lips and to hug you close to me and _ugh_, how long is it until Glee practice?

Rachel is having us perform a special number for Mr. Schue – why we need a whole new one is beyond me but right now I'd be willing to give my left ball to Rachel for all she's inadvertently done for me.

I don't know the song we sing very well, apparently it's Kelly Clarkson? So I let Finn take the lead and in fits of giggles, we perform _Single Ladies_ in the background with Tina and Brittany. It's awesome, and Mr. Schue dissolves into laughter. At the end of practice, we're all so buzzed that Schue lets us out early in fear that we'll explode from too much energy. As he waves goodbye, I pick up my bag and make to leave, but see you still sat in your chair with a self-satisfied smirk. I let the door bang shut.

'Well, we won.' You have a hint of mischief in your eyes. I play along, feigning ignorance as I sit down next to you.

'Yes, we did. And?'

'And I think you owe me something.' I never expected you to be bold like this, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, it seems like you've actually been waiting as long as I have for this to happen.

'Oh, yeah, I promised you thirty minutes of kissing, didn't I? Well…' I lean in and kiss you because, fuck, _I can,_ and you respond immediately, pressing hard against me, sighing into the kiss. I could stay this way forever, only…

'There's one minute.' I say, pulling back with a grin. You puff out your cheeks angrily and poke me in the chest.

'That was barely thirty seconds and you know it!' You insist, and then your face relaxes into a smile. 'But I suppose I'll forgive you, as long as you make up for it in the future.'

'I suppose I should probably ask you out then.' I sigh, feigning annoyance as you flick your hair.

'I suppose you should.' You say haughtily, but there's humor in your voice.

'So, go out with me, then?' You break into laughter as soon as I say it. You raise your eyebrows in an attempt to look unimpressed, and shake your head.

'No _way_.' You say, deadpanned. I clutch at my heart, but I can't keep the smile from my face.

'What?' I say, trying to sound pained, 'I knew it, you only like me for my body!'

'Mostly the lips, I'll admit. But I also like your…' you pause, smiling, '…eyes.'

'Woe is me, I admit I'm gay and you still won't be my boyfriend.' Both of us stop abruptly at that. Everything seems so _serious_ all of a sudden, but not in a bad way.

'_Boyfriend.'_ You repeat, and we stare at each other. 'I've never had a _boyfriend.'_

'Neither have I. Do you want one?'

You sigh forlornly, 'I do, so very much! But where am I supposed to find one?'

I laugh, then, since I can't seem to stop kissing you now, peck you softly on the lips, 'Stop…' and then the nose, 'teasing…' then the cheek, 'me.' Then, finally, the forehead.

'But it's so much fun!' Your face is bright red, but you haven't stopped smiling. 'I suppose I'll consider making you my boyfriend.'

I groan, leaning back on the chair. 'What do you want me to do, serenade you?'

Your face seems to brighten with evil delight. I can practically hear you cackling in your head, 'Ooh, you're going to wish you hadn't said that.'

'Seriously?' I roll my eyes and you smile smugly. _'Fine.'_

I drop to one knee and your eyes go wide. Who's the smug one now? 'I was kidding, you don't have to-'

'_It's a little bit funny, this feeling inside…'_ I sing, and it's around about now that I realize that, despite originally planning to sing this song for my ballad, I never actually learnt the words. Time to improvise. _'I'm one of those gays who can easily hi-iiide!_' You giggle at that, '_Something about money…_uh, oh yeah, _I don't have much money, but Kurt, if I did…I'd buy you a wardrobe where your clothes could live._'

'Those lyrics aren't even nearly right.' You say, but your eyes are sparkling with joy and your face has gone bright red. Your fingers dance around your knees as you tap them to the silent beat.

_'If I was in AV Club… or then again, no. Or a gymnast that did backflips with the Cheerio-oohs!' _I thought that one was pretty good._ 'Oh, I know it's not much but it'll just have to do – I took this great song and I rewrote for you.'_

Thankfully, I actually almost know the chorus, so I belt it out proudly, watching as your hands move to clasp at each other over your heart. You sway slightly, in time even though there's no music playing. You're welling up, and the sight of your happiness is almost enough to make me forget the lyrics all over again.

_'I sat in the locker room and I smelt dirty socks, well, you know that sometimes I can get pretty cross! But you've been so kind while I've stumbled along – it's time to admit that you really…_ahem.' I clear my throat because I'm not about to say _turn me on_. You put your hand over your mouth, giggling silently.

_'So excuse me for getting, well, a little confused. You see, I can't tell if they're green or they're blue…anyway, the thing is, what I really mean: yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen.'_

Okay, so I don't have music, I'm probably out of tune and my lyrics suck ass, but you're nearly in tears (happy tears, I'm assuming) and grinning that fucking adorable smile where I can actually see your teeth, the smile that you never show if you can help it because you're self-conscious.

'That…was actually pretty good. Did you make it up on the spot?' You wipe away a tear and try to stop smiling, but fail. Your eyes are so squinty and teared up, I can barely see them, but I'm sure they've gone that really light green color.

I pull a face, trying to look confused, 'You mean, those weren't the real lyrics?' I say, sitting back down in the chair next to you. You stare at me for a moment, and then, with a hint of hesitation, lean on my shoulder. I tilt my head so it rests over yours and we just stay there like that for a few minutes. It feels warm and safe, being in contact with you, even if it's only a little.

'You know, you're kind of awesome, Dave. When you're not being a jerk, anyway.'

I wince at that, but you have a point. 'I'm sorry I've been such an ass.' I apologize softly, enjoying the weight of you against me. 'I just… this was really hard for me. Which is so stupid, because why should it be hard just to… _be?_ It should be the easiest thing in the world.' I ramble on, probably talking nonsense, but you sigh gently beside me.

'Being true to yourself is always easier than lying.' You say, but I disagree. I mean, someone as perfect as you, with your beautiful voice and your badass diva attitude, it must be easy to be yourself. To be Kurt Hummel can't take that much effort, right?

'For you, yeah. But you're so… you're amazing.' I try not to sound too adoring, but I'm sure I fail, 'I'm just Dave Karofsky.'

'I _like_ Dave Karofsky.' You say, moving your head so we face each other again. You're still smiling. 'This has been the best week ever.' And your eyes glance at the giant trophy, shiny and golden, representing our triumph at Sectionals.

I kiss you softly on the lips in front of that trophy and know that today; I got something much, much better.

Pride, honesty, self-respect, sincerity.

Oh, and you.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	12. Hello

Uh...hello? It's been a while, I know. I suck. I'm sorry for the delay, I just lost my mojo for this story a bit. I'm getting back into the swing of things, and your continued support has been much appreciated, so thank you!

**Rating:** M for swearing.

**Warnings: **Bit o' swearing, but not much else.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Glee it would never have been allowed on TV, for various reasons...

**Notes: **ajfskdfl, you guys make this worth everything. Your reviews and support really keep me going, so thank you all so much! This chapter is a little filler-y but I'm going to try and update a lot faster this time. :)

Enjoy!

* * *

**Hell-o**

'Hello.'

So, here we are. Sectionals are over and we're moving up and on to Regionals. Not only that, but I have a boyfriend now. You're my _boyfriend._

I walk into my boyfriend's house and after glancing around quickly hug my boyfriend and kiss my boyfriend on the cheek. Then my boyfriend drags me in so we can watch a movie. It's something we've done before, but not as _boyfriends._

In case you can't tell, I really like that word.

'Hello.' I say, as you shove me into your room. I perch on your chaise, and you smirk and hand me a glass of soda, before sitting down tentatively beside me.

'I think you already said that.' You point out, and I notice that there's space between us but I don't try and close it just yet.

'Yeah, but I wanted to say it again, _boyfriend.'_ I test out the word on my tongue. God, that feels so weird and awesome at the same time.

Your face lights up at that. 'Oh my god it sounds even better now. Can I…um, can I kiss you?'

So, things have gotten past the adrenaline rush that was our first kiss in the locker room and the adrenaline tidal wave that was our second, third…okay, so I've lost count. We're now at that awkward, tentative stage where neither of us wants to screw things up because we're not sure exactly what the boundaries are.

'Of course you can, you're my boyfriend.' I jest, and you lean in to give me a delighted kiss, soft but filled with hunger.

'You have no idea how long I've wanted to be able to just do that.' You admit, your cheeks flushed. A small, bashful smile plays on your lips.

You're right; I really don't have an idea. 'How long?'

'Ever since we got thrown in that dumpster.'

'That long?' It's a little disappointing that I waited so long, but then maybe this is exactly how it was supposed to work out. I just wasn't ready back then.

'Didn't you think it was weird that I was always clinging to you and that I spent so much time with you? I went bright red every time we were close to each other, I mean, I practically threw myself at you. Half the reason I knew you weren't straight is because you didn't get a restraining order.'

I think about it. I suppose I should have known, really, but then I was locked so far in the closet that I'm surprised Mr. Tumnus and I aren't buddies.

'Maybe it was because I really wanted to spend time with you.' I muse, and you lean against me, shoulder to shoulder, closing that gap. God, it feels good to have you near me. To know that I can just kiss you whenever I want. Okay, not _whenever_ I want, but I'm trying to work on that.

'Well, I am hard to resist.' You tease with a smirk. I stick my tongue out at you childishly in response. 'What about you? Did you…I mean, when do you think you starting_liking_ me?'

It's a difficult question. I don't really know when exactly it was that I _fell_ for you. There's always been…_something_ there, ever since I first laid eyes on you. The moment we spoke, I knew there was something odd about my feelings for you. I just didn't understand what they meant until later. For some reason, when I tell you that you get all flushed and happy and…that's _it!_ I have my damn song.

Oh, yeah. Mr. Schue gave us an assignment this week to do something with _Hello_ in the title and I haven't been able to find _anything. _Well, not true exactly, I'd found sheet music to the Beatles' _Hello, Little Girl, _and a random assortment of other songs that I don't know. Finn started off singing _Hello, I Love You_ and then Rachel sang _Gives You Hell,_ in which she seemed pretty pissed off at Finn. I don't know why exactly because as far as I'm aware, they're dating.

Uh, anyway. Problem solved, I've just thought of the perfect song. But you're looking at me expectantly and I still haven't answered. 'I'm not sure.' Your expression falters slightly, 'I can't really pinpoint a moment.' You nod, but say nothing, and to my relief, the conversation moves on.

We watch a movie, my choice this time, but I went for a rom-com to keep you happy. It's around five when Azimio calls and says he can't come to Breadstix. At first, I panic because I'm absolutely sure he's found us out, but he quickly reassures me that he has to babysit his younger brother because his parents have decided to go out. Why his younger brother, who to my knowledge is at least 15, needs babysitting is beyond me, but when I ask, he just says something vague about his mom's makeup cabinet. I don't ask for details.

We had planned to go out and have a close-friends-only Sectionals celebration tonight. Of course, by close friends I mean you, me, Mercedes and Azimio but your best friend bailed too. I also tried to invite Rachel but last week she told me she had plans with Finn.

'I guess we'll just eat in, then? We can put on a movie.' You say, with feigned enthusiasm. I know you wanted to go out and celebrate as much as I did, even if we wouldn't be able to sit next to each other or hold hands or anything.

God, being in the closet sucks. We both know it, but we're not talking about it. Of course, you probably want me to come out to everyone else and…and I know it would be amazing but I'm just not _there_ yet.

Do I want to be able to walk side-by-side down McKinley's halls with you? Yes. Do I want to be able to sing flirty duets with you in Glee Club? Of course. But I don't want to have to change in the bathroom stalls after football. I don't want guys to jerk away from me in practice if I tackle them because they think I'm making a pass at them. I don't want guys to think I _like_ them just because they're _guys._ I don't want my best friend to have to shun me like a fucking leper.

But all of that doesn't mean you should suffer too. Because this isn't just about me anymore, it's about _us,_ and if you want to go with your boyfriend to Breadstix then you should damn well be able to.

'We should go to Breadstix.' I say, eventually. Your eyes widen almost comically, and I can see they're a little red. 'Just the two of us. If anyone asks, we're just friends.'

'Really?' There's no hiding the excitement in your voice when it rises to that pitch. 'I mean, if you're _sure-'_

'I'm sure.' I smile, and you let out a little victory squeal before spontaneously leaning in and pecking me on the lips. As soon as you realize what you've done, your face flushes red and you look guilty for a split second before relaxing again. Ah, the tentative awkwardness of young love. Wait, shit, forget I said that word.

Anyway, with that out of the way, you suddenly seem much more chipper. You then start getting ready before pausing and berating me on my outfit. I watch, amused, as you go on a rant about my baseball hat and how your dad is always wearing one and that all baseball hats should be banned. Eventually you come to the conclusion that your dad is excused because he's bald, but that you're going to confiscate mine for life. I don't complain, just grin and agree with you. Baseball hats are one thing I have no problem with giving up if it makes you happy.

You flit around for the next hour or so choosing an appropriate outfit. I thought the one you had on was awesome, but whatever. Watching you pop in and out with different outfits is much more interesting than it was with Rachel. Plus, I'm now officially allowed to rate your clothes choice on how hot you are without feeling guilty. Of course, I still don't say that out loud since I think it might make you uncomfortable.

Naturally, the outfit you pick is ranked first in my hottest outfits list. You always have had a knack for that.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

My hand is itching to take yours when we walk into Breadstix, but I know I have to resist or people will stare. Plus, the chances of people from school being here are pretty high, since this is _the_ place to go out, apparently.

Actually, I vaguely recall that Rachel said she and Finn are coming here tonight so…hey, yeah! I spot Finn and wave awkwardly before freezing in mid air.

That's not Rachel.

Finn's sat with Santana and Brittany, his expression an amalgamation of terror and confusion. As we walk by, he gazes up at us and the confusion part gets even more obvious.

'What are you guys doing here?' he asks, and I feel my face turning red almost instantly.

'We're having dinner.' you say, 'We were supposed to meet with Mercedes too, but she couldn't come.'

As Santana opens her mouth to speak, I cut her off, 'Two friends are allowed to have dinner together, right? You and Brittany do it all the time.' Her mouth clamps together so fast we can actually her teeth click.

'Yeah, of course.' She finally murmurs, leaning back on the booth seat and scooting just a little closer to Brittany.

'So, you guys here on a date?' You can't disguise that your voice has gone even higher, either because you're panicking or because you're mocking them, I'm not sure.

'Yup!' Brittany chirps, far too enthusiastically. Finn looks more like he wants out of there, despite being on a date with two hot girls. Then again, I'm pretty sure said girls have an ulterior motive for being there. Well, Santana probably does; Brittany's likely just there because she's being roped into whatever Santana's planning.

'Right. We'll…just leave you to it, then.' I give you a look and you reply with a tiny shrug before we head to a booth.

'What was that about?' You ask, as soon as we sit down. 'I thought he was dating Rachel now.'

'So did I.' I scratch the back of my head, 'You think he's cheating on her?'

'Finn? He's not smart enough.'

'But it would make Rachel's impromptu song less inappropriate.' I point out, referring to the _Gives You Hell _fiasco. You nod musingly, before picking up your menu and scanning your options.

'Do you think any of this is organic?' You ask, and I pull a face, 'Right, this is Lima, of course not. So, have you picked a _hello_ song yet?'

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

'I broke up with him.' Rachel claims, almost haughtily after I ask her what's going on between her and Finn. 'I've grown out of him.'

'You've been dating him a _week.' _I point out, trying desperately not to roll my eyes.

She ignores me, continuing to move things around in her locker. I don't think she actually needs anything from it, she just doesn't want to meet my eye. 'I've moved on. I found someone new, someone who can keep up with me vocally.'

'Please tell me it's not Puck.'

'His name is Jesse St. James and he's the lead in Vocal Adrenaline.'

Vocal Adrenaline? _The _Vocal Adrenaline? Our archenemy Vocal Adrenaline? 'You're kidding, right?'

'Not at all.' Rachel looks vaguely insulted by that, but continues arranging her locker. 'We met in a music store and the chemistry was instantaneous. We sang a duet, you know, and our voices are perfectly matched. Well, his is more fine-tuned but he _is_ a senior.'

Hold the fucking phone, did Rachel Berry just admit to someone being _better _than her? Did I enter the Twilight Zone or what?

'Rachel, he's the lead of Vocal Adrenaline! Don't you think that's a little suspicious?' There's no way of putting it delicately. The guy's totally using her. I'm a dude, we know these things.

'Not at all. My flawless voice and potential future stardom is very attractive to some men. I would have thought you of all people would understand that.'

I raise an eyebrow, 'Uh, what?'

'Kurt?' she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

'Wh- I'm not dating Kurt because of his singing or because he's going to be famous! Rachel, that's a terrible reason to date someone.'

'Well, it's none of your business!' She bursts out, a little louder. She actually looks upset now, and I can't help but feel a little guilty. Still, the guy's got to be playing her, right? He's in_Vocal Adrenaline!_ Everyone knows they're pure evil.

But it's too late to say that, because her locker has slammed shut and she's storming away from me. Ugh, again with the storming. Every day with the _storming_. You'd think she'd be sick of it by now.

I pull out my phone and ring you. If my memory serves me well, you should be coming out of French now.

'Hello?' You chirp down the line.

'Hey. We have a Rachel problem.'

'What kind of problem?'

'Well, it's _Rachel_.' I sigh, leaning against my locker and rubbing my temple with my free hand. It does little to alleviate the sudden ache growing there.

'Where are you?' You demand, your voice shrill.

'At my locker.'

The line goes dead, and within a minute, you're standing beside me. 'What did she do?' You ask, sighing, and I explain our situation. After listening intently, you roll your eyes and are on the phone to Mercedes in seconds. Before I know it, you've already set up a Glee-intervention or something and Rachel's budding romance is doomed.

And I keep telling myself not to get involved.

Glee practice comes a lot faster than I expected. I guess time really does fly when you're absolutely fucking terrified.

So I have my song, right? I've chosen it, and I've practiced it and I'm ready but I'm so _scared. _What if they figure it out? I mean, Rachel already knows and I'm sure Santana has some sort of idea. It would be a miracle if you haven't told Mercedes, so that's three people who already have some clue.

When Mr. Schue asks if any of us have a song prepared, I clear my throat. 'I have a song.' Of course he's delighted, and he grins at me, beckoning me up to the performance area.

I glance over at where you're sitting, regarding me with a bemused look. I didn't tell you I was singing today. In fact, I told you I hadn't even chosen a song yet, to keep it a surprise.

The music starts, and I try not to faint as I open my mouth to begin the song. I sound noticeably shaky at first, and I'm sure everyone notices, but I'm a little preoccupied by the fact my hands won't stop shaking violently.

'At the mirror you fix your hair and put your make up on…' I sing, swaying slightly with the band's guitar, trying to relax. 'You're insecure about what clothes to wear, I can't see nothing wrong.' I resist looking over at you, and wonder if this is too obvious. Well, it refers to make up, and you don't technically wear _make up_ as such, so…

'To me you look so beautiful when you can't make up your mind. It's half past eight it's getting late. It's ok! Take your time.' A small smile, remembering your constant outfit panics, when you look awesome in whatever you wear.

'Standing here my hands in my pockets like I have a thousand times,' Yeah, I sing here all the time. But for the first time, I'm singing to you. I chose this song because the words mean something to me. It's more than just a silly assignment. 'Thinking back it took one breath, one word to change my life.'

Funny, that word was _gay, _rather than our assignment word. But I guess _hello_set it all off. And yeah, I know we didn't really say hello in our first meeting, but I'm being metaphorical here, okay? Shut up.

'The first time I saw you, it felt like coming home.' Even if I didn't know it at the time. I didn't realise what home was, what it was like to feel at home with myself. But you showed me. 'If I never told you I just want you to know...You had me from hello.'

The girls are singing soft backing vocals now, and everyone's hands are in the air, swaying. 'When we walk in to a crowded room, it's like we're all alone.' I stare at you, and then quickly look away, focusing on Rachel for a moment. 'Everybody tries to kidnap your attention you just smile and steal the show.' Out of the corner of my eye I see you crack a smile at that.

'From the first time I saw you, it felt like coming home. If I never told you I just want you to know...You had me from hello.'I finish the song just as my eyes start to itch, and just about resist wiping at them with my sleeve. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Mr. Schue walks over and claps me on the back. 'Wow, David, that was…' I could swear there are tears in his eyes, too, 'Wonderful, really. Was that dedicated to someone?'

'Uh, no.' He looks at me dubiously, and I try to come up with a lie quickly. At the back of the room, your eyes widen and you shake your head slowly. 'Well, yeah. There's…um, there's this…' God, I don't want to say it. I don't want to keep lying. 'This girl I like.' The word is sour on my tongue.

There are a few catcalls and whistles from my less than mature friends, but I'm not looking at them. You're sat with your eyes fixed downwards, refusing to meet my eye. Prickles of shame sweep under my skin, and I have to force myself to look away. In front of you, Rachel sits with her lips pursed tightly, and in the corner with a totally ignorant Brittany, Santana has one eyebrow raised, unamused.

Mr. Schue gives a smile, squeezing my shoulder. 'She's a lucky girl.' he says, which sounds creepier than it was, I swear.

'Not really.' I murmur, and go sit down next to you. You don't even look at me, but when everyone else is distracted by Puck's rendition of Neil Diamond's _Hello Again,_ you very subtly reach over and squeeze my hand.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

We approach her after Glee practice. Well, approach is probably not the appropriate word. Ambush, maybe. 'Rachel, wait!'

'Um, yes?' Rachel's eyebrows furrow, 'What's going on? Is this an intervention, because I don't care what you say, I like my sweaters.'

Immediately you revert to your head-bitch-in-charge stance, arms crossed and bitch-face all laid out. 'Cut the butter, Benedict Arnold.' You say, 'We heard about your new boyfriend.'

Rachel's eyes shift to me immediately, and I mouth _'sorry'. _But honestly, I had to tell everyone. This is important shit. And not just for Glee Club, but for Rachel herself.

'Look, Rachel, we're all happy that you're happy. But we've worked too hard in Glee Club to let you throw it away on a relationship that might not even be real.'

Rachel looks pretty hurt by that. Clearly, she's not going to accept that she's being duped any time soon, 'Why, because he's in Vocal Adrenaline?'

'Their motto is _Aut neca aut necatus eris_.' you tell her. What the fuck does that mean anyway? 'Which loosely translates to _murder or be murdered.' _Right. Of course you'd know that, you're smart. God, my boyfriend is _smart._ This is one of the times I'd hug you if I could.

'They give their dancers human growth hormone.' Tina cuts across my little inner monologue. And ew, that can't be good. How does everyone know all this stuff anyway? Have you been doing some in depth research on Vocal Adrenaline I don't know about?

Mercedes tries to sound a little sympathetic, 'Look, we're not saying that the dude is playing you-'

'He's playing you.' you interrupt. Artie snickers quietly and I have to cover my mouth, feeling guilty.

Mercedes continues, 'We just think that until Regionals are over, we can't risk the possibility that he is.'

'None of us want to go through what happened at Sectionals again.'

Rachel sighs, and looks at us as if we've murdered a puppy, 'Okay, look. Jesse and I might not be true love, but what if we are? I know who I am and…how many chances at this am I going to get?' Oh, great, a guilt trip. As if I don't feel bad enough already, now she has to go and lay her whole future on the line. As if this one relationship is the be all and end all of everything.

There's a moment of silence where we all share a second of guilt. Then I hear you take a deep breath behind me and thank some higher power that you're stronger than me, 'If you don't break up with him, you're out.'

'You can't kick me out!' Rachel shouts, shrill, and glares at you. I want to jump to your defense, but I stay quiet. I haven't said anything because I don't want to hurt Rachel, but I_know_ she's wrong.

'No, but we can all quit if Mr. Schue doesn't.' Artie says, almost smugly.

'Well, good luck winning without me!'

'Everyone is replaceable.' You reply, your voice low. 'Even you.'

Rachel's gaze settles on me. 'Dave?'

Everyone in the room turns to look at me expectantly. What am I supposed to do? I can't exactly stick up for Rachel, even if I do feel sorry for her. After all, it's blatantly obvious that Jesse is going to break her heart. But…_shit._ She's one of the closest friends I've got. 'I'm sorry, Rach.'

A beat, a look of utter betrayal, and Rachel flees the room.

'Well, that settles that.' Artie says when she's gone.

'Don't you think that was a little harsh?' I address the group, who are already getting up to leave. Most of them shrug and mumble something about how annoying Rachel is.

'She had it coming.' Mercedes says, flicking her hair back like she's trying to be dramatic. 'Nothing could come out of dating that Jesse kid, we all know it.' Then, she turns to you and smiles, 'Coming?'

'In a minute.' You reply, fiddling with your bag as if you haven't finished packing it. 'I'll meet you in the cafeteria, okay?' And Mercedes leaves too, meaning we're alone. You turn to me and I realize that's what you were planning.

'Hello.' I say, slightly breathy. Confronting Rachel kind of screwed up my nerves.

'Hi.'

'Did you like the song?' I ask, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel. The whole Rachel debacle has thrown me off slightly, and I just need to get back to this. This whole…boyfriend situation.

'It was amazing. Beautiful. Actually, that's the first time I've had a Glee club solo dedicated to me.'

'I sang _Your Song,_ didn't that count?' You smack me playfully on the shoulder. 'I'm sorry I couldn't really dedicate it to you.'

And suddenly it's as if the elephant in the room has started a stampede. It's time to talk about…well….us. The future. Serious stuff. It feels like the air around us has gotten colder.

'Maybe some day you'll be able to?' You ask, at barely a whisper.

I stare at you and suddenly feel like bursting into tears right here, but that would be completely pathetic. 'Not yet.' My voice sounds choked, and I can feel it catching in my throat as if even my body knows I don't want to say it. But your expression hasn't changed; there's still the anxious, expectant look.

'But some day?' You sound hopeful, but I know better. This isn't you encouraging me; no, you're genuinely asking if I'll ever be prepared to come out for you. And yeah, there's maybe a little bit of a push, too, but nobody's perfect.

I don't even have to think about it. Because no matter how scared I am right now, I know that you'll be there to help me. It's almost pathetic, but I just know that if I'm with you, I can do it. I can come out, I can be a boyfriend you're proud of. 'Some day.' I murmur, 'I…I don't know when, Kurt, but I'm going to do it, I swear. I don't want to hide any more. I just need time, okay?'

Your eyes soften and you smile gently, hesitantly raising your hand to stroke my cheek. I almost recoil before I remember that this is okay now, I can do this without feeling ashamed.

It's not easy. When you live your life thinking something is wrong, it takes a while to adjust. Even after I knew for sure I was gay, I hadn't thought about the little things, like touching you or wanting to hold your hand.

Your fingers link through mine just for a moment, squeezing reassuringly. It feels new and scary, but also really nice. It's just one more thing I get to say hello to.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


	13. Home

Hi guys! I'm breaking out of my hiatus a bit to bring you this chapter! I'll be surprised if anyone is still reading, but I hope a few of you will enjoy this ;D

**Rating:** T, but there is swearing.

**Warnings: **Just swearing, and a bit...maybe a fair bit of angst. Issues regarding coming out.

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Glee, this fic would be canon and therefore wouldn't exist.

**Notes: **I skirted over the Madonna episode, but it's sort of wound in here too :) As always, thank you so much for your support, I love you guys! Oh, and a special thanks to Spookybibi for the Terminator idea, because I honestly have no idea about action movies.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Home**

I'm half way through an argument with Rachel when you turn up. We're fighting about Jesse _again, _no surprises there. She's still intent on ignoring the fact that he's clearly a giant douchebag because she's head over heels for him.

'He's using you!' I yell, and she just huffs and ignores me, 'How can you not see it?! He's going to turn around and stab you in the back and then we're _all_ screwed!'

'He transferred here for _me,_ David! It's _romantic!'_

Ugh, here we go again. I'm no stranger to romance, but there's a line between romantic and downright suspicious. Who the hell moves school to get closer to a girl he's been dating a few weeks?! 'It's _pathetic!_ No one would actually do that! Either he's a complete idiot, or he has ulterior motives!'

'Look, I don't care what- oh, hey Kurt!' Rachel's eyes dart over to where you've just approached us, keen for a distraction. She won't get away with it, I'm not that easily sidetra-

_Holy shit you're in a Cheerios outfit._

'I…uh…um.' I stammer out, and a smug grin settles on your face. Rachel uses my dumbstruck state as an opportunity to slip away quietly. Well, I assume it's quietly, but she could be ranting as she goes; I wouldn't even notice.

'Like what you see?' And with that you do a little twirl that makes me nearly break through my closet door and jump on you. The uniform is unfairly tight around your ass, absolutely emphasizing how fucking _grabable_ it is. All I want is to reach out and…_no._ Bad Dave.

'Uh…' I try to speak but apparently I've forgotten how. I definitely haven't blinked for too long, and to be honest, I'm surprised I haven't stopped breathing. Your arms are bare, too, showing more skin than usual and, _fuck,_ were they always that toned? I really need to get you out of your clothes more often. Uh. That came out wrong.

'Seriously, Dave, you're going to catch flies.' Your eyebrows are raised and you look a little concerned, if not still quite smug.

I finally manage to form words, 'You're a Cheerio.'

A chuckle, 'And you're observant.' you reply, all self-satisfied, but don't think I miss that blush spreading across your cheeks.

'Wh-why are you a Cheerio?'

'Because I joined the Cheerios. Do you have a problem with that?'

'No!' I say, embarrassingly quickly, 'No problems. Absolutely no problems whatsoever.' _Apart from the one in my pants, that is._ 'Uh, you look…erm…'

'Words, Dave. Use them.'

'Wanky.' Santana cuts through our conversation and my mouth snaps shut. 'Careful, Davey, if you keep staring at Twinky McLady-Lips like that and people are going to talk.' I feel panic sweep through me, but you're already giving Santana your Head Bitch glare.

'Wow, projecting much?' you shoot back, and her lips tighten into a thin line. With a throwaway shrug, she keeps walking and sits down next to Brittany, looking distinctly less comfortable.

'Ignore her. I thought I should tell you that Mercedes and I signed up. We're performing this afternoon.'

'I…' I start to speak, but words seem like such a foreign concept and there are so many places I'm trying not to stare. You're starting to look really concerned now.

'Seriously, are you okay?' You ask, and you go to place a hand on my forehead but I bat it away. For a moment, you look hurt, but I mumble an apology and you give a faint smile.

'I'm fine.' I reassure you, 'Great. What exactly prompted this?' Because I can't say you've ever shown interest in cheerleading before. In fact, I've heard you bitch about the Cheerios on multiple occasions.

'Let's just say that Mercedes and I are not exactly happy with this Jesse situation.' You glance over at where Rachel has gone to sit down on her own. Jesse must still be in class. 'We decided to help Coach Sylvester out with something, and in return she made us an offer to join the Cheerios.'

'Oh, okay. I mean, are you sure you'll have time for both? Not that I'm objecting. Um. At all.' I mutter, below my breath, but you hear it nonetheless.

'I'll make it work. It's not like I have any big solos to practice for.' You say, somewhat bitterly, sending a glare at Jesse as he enters the room and sits next to Rachel. I feel for you, not that I'm exactly begging for solos. I just kind of do whatever I'm told in Glee; if Rachel wants me to sing, I sing, if not I let Finn take the reigns. But ever since Jesse's arrival, he's taken on both Finn's and my songs, so we've kind of been hung up to dry. I'm not complaining, it means I get to stay with you in the numbers, but it's still a bit of a blow to the ego.

And as far as you're concerned, it's the nail in the coffin. Mr. Schue practically ignored you before the curly haired double agent appeared, with the occasional defense that your voice wasn't _traditional_ enough for whatever song we were doing, but now he barely even tries to apologize. And Rachel has had every solo this week, which means that Mercedes is about ready to murder her.

Mr. Schue eventually comes in and immediately quizzes you and Mercedes about your outfits. This leads to another big fight about Jesse, with Rachel yelling in his defense and Schue desperately trying to calm everyone down. By the end of practice, we haven't done a single song, but Finn's been sent to Figgins for trying to hit Jesse and Mercedes has stormed out in protest. A slightly frazzled Mr. Schue then has to explain to the rest of us how apparently we've been kicked out of the auditorium for the week, and we're going to have to find somewhere else to rehearse the big numbers.

All in a day's Glee.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

At lunch, I find you in the cafeteria, sitting with an almost empty tray. Either you're done or waiting for me to get lunch. I, on the other hand, have a tasty looking cheeseburger and fries, which I place down. At the other end of the table are two random students I swear I've never seen before, but you're clearly not interacting with them. They seem to be having a very animated conversation about a Chem class they're angry about.

'Hey, Kurt.' I sit down. Your eyes stay fixed on the table, like you're lost in thought. 'Are you alright?' I ask, and you look up, startled, before relaxing again. 'What's up?'

'It's Finn.' You whisper, and for a second my heart stops and I feel a prick of something I hate to admit _might_ be jealousy. Then you continue, 'He came to talk to me after he got back from Figgins' office. You know I got him that job working for my dad? Well, his mom and my dad are now _dating_. They met when his mom was picking him up from work.' Your voice seems ever so slightly resentful, but more obvious is the anxiety in it.

'What's wrong with that? Finn doesn't bother you anymore, right?' I ask gently, and you shake your head quickly, and then look down in your lap.

'I just…it's complicated.' You mutter, glancing sideways. 'He doesn't like me, you know that. He thinks I have a crush on him.'

'Do you?' I don't mean it to come out so rude, and I have to restrain myself from clapping a hand over my mouth, but you just regard me with a strange expression for a moment, and then shake your head firmly.

'_No!'_ You say, then, quieter, 'I mean, he's very good-looking and I suppose his stupidity is charming in its ways, and I guess I _might_ have a crush on him if it weren't for…' You cut yourself off very suddenly with the hasty realization that we're not alone. Then you give one of your adorable nervous laughs, 'Let's just say, he's not really what I'm looking for.' You say, pointedly.

'I guess not.' I mumble, attempting a smile while I feel my stomach drop.

'Conflicting emotions' barely begins to describe it. I'm happy that you don't like Finn (because honestly, not sure if I would want to try and fight him. Puckerman might still back him up,) but at the same time, if _Finn_ isn't your type, then why am I? I'm not 'very good looking,' and I'm pretty sure my occasional idiocy isn't so much charming as awkward and irritating.

You're looking at me oddly again, and somewhere outside of myself I hear you ask if I'm alright, but I'm just nodding dumbly and clearing my throat, changing the subject back to you.

'So, what are you going to do?' I ask, and you sigh forlornly.

'I…um, I don't suppose you could talk to him for me?' You ask quietly, 'Just…let him know that I'm cool?' You shake your head, 'not _cool, _uh. Just…can you just make it clear to him that I have…I'm not…I don't…' You trail off, still shaking your head. 'I have feelings for someone else.' You finally finish, eyes fixed firmly on the ground, your face heating up. The jealously very quickly ebbs away. 'Strong feelings.' You reiterate, and after a quick glance around, take my hand and squeeze it quickly before anyone else sees.

'I guess I could have a word with him.' I promise, smiling in what I hope is a reassuring way. It must help, because you look infinitely happier. 'C'mon, let's get lunch.'

'Oh, I have my lunch.' You motion down at your tray, which has a single plate on it, with one piece of celery. Oh, and a glass of water.

'Please tell me you're eating more than celery.' I say, 'Or you already ate earlier and you're not hungry.'

'If that would make you feel better, I'll tell you that.' I say nothing, and you proceed to sip your water for a few seconds before rolling your eyes at me, 'Fine, I'm on a diet.'

Diet. A diet, _you?! _'Uh…why?' I ask, trying not to sound quite as confused as I feel. You just sigh and examine your nails, and if that isn't an indication of guilt, I don't know what is.

'Because, David, I've let myself go recently_.'_ You cup your mouth and whisper, _'_I've got _You-know-what gut_.' I'm guessing "you-know-what gut" is supposed to be relationship gut. Subtle. 'And Coach Sylvester is right, my hips _are_ pear-shaped.'

'Whoa, whoa. Hold up there. You think you're overweight?'

'I know I am.' You insist, clearly ignoring my tone. And there's such _certainty _there; I know you really mean it. You really do think you're fat. I mean, I know every teenager thinks that, but _you_…

'You're fucking _kidding_ me, right?'

'You don't have to _mock_ me!' you snap, 'I'm just trying to be healthy, you know.'

'You are healthy! You basically only eat organic food, for god's sake! You're…' I drop my voice, 'You're gorgeous, Kurt. You're the hottest guy I know.' If even the two randomers on our table heard me right now, I'd be totally busted, but that's not what I'm thinking about.

Your raise an eyebrow, 'I appreciate the sentiment, Dave, but I think you're biased.' You take a bite out of the celery and wince.

'What did you have for breakfast?'

'I hardly think that's any of your busi-'

'_Kurt_.'

'Splenda.' You admit, guiltily, 'There's nothing wrong with wanting to lose a few pounds, David!'

'There is if you're doing it like this! It's dangerous, Kurt, and it'll do more harm than good!'

'Ugh!' You whirl around to face me, furious, 'Dave, will you please quit it? You're not my father, so don't act like him!' And with that, you do a pretty good Rachel impression, and storm out of the cafeteria.

Left alone, I slam my head down on the table in frustration. Artie and Tina, who conveniently just arrived stare at me like I've gone insane. 'Bad day?' Artie asks, nervously.

'You have no idea.' I mumble, glaring at my food. It mocks me in all its calorific glory. God, if you think _you're_ overweight, what must you think of me? I've always been a big guy, and there's no doubt I have a couple of pounds it wouldn't hurt to shed.

No longer hungry, I get up and leave my tray on the table. Artie and Tina stare as I walk away. Mercedes is talking to Santana and Brittany near the lunch line and I wait for her to finish before I approach, noticing how she's abandoned her lunch too, even though her lunch tray was overabundant in green to start with.

'What the hell is going on?' I ask, probably a bit too harshly. 'Why is Kurt only eating celery? And what's with the salad?' I don't mean to sound like a dick, but salad isn't exactly Mercedes' usual choice of food.

'Coach Sylvester wants us to lose weight. I have to lose 10lbs by next week, and she says Kurt should lose some too.'

'Wh- _what?!' _My voice goes a little too high pitched, so I take a deep breath. '10lbs?! Mercedes, that's insane!'

'Sometimes you have to make sacrifices in life, Dave.'

I feel fairly strongly about this subject. I _like_ food, and yeah, I'm a big guy. I need energy to play football, to work out and to dance around in Glee Club. 'Food isn't something you should _ever_ sacrifice if you don't have to.'

'Well, we have to!' Mercedes counters, and I'm fairly sure she's going to start shouting at me soon.

'And Kurt is supporting this?'

She looks marginally uncomfortable. 'We both want to stay on the Cheerios.'

So basically, you're encouraging this. Hell, this is probably your idea. Just brilliant.

'Please eat lunch, Mercedes.' I plead, but even as she nods, I know she's not going to. But there's not much I can do about that right now. I have to find you and try and sort this out.

I head to the choir room, but get stopped in the corridor. 'Karofsky. We need to talk.' A flash of blonde hair and a slightly nasal voice is all I register as I'm pulled into an abandoned classroom. I swear there are a remarkable amount of abandoned classrooms at this school.

'Quinn?' I ask, and have to blink a couple of times to make sure I'm not imagining it. 'Uh, hi.' Why is Quinn talking to me? She's barely said a word to me in the whole year, not since we had our moment about the whole baby daddy fiasco. And before that, when I was pretending to be in love with her, she hardly glanced my way. I even joined the Celibacy Club for her. As far as fake crushes go, she was pretty cruel to me.

'I need to talk to you about Mercedes.'

'What about her?' I sound guarded because, well, I am. I don't trust Quinn.

'You were talking to her about Kurt, right? About how Coach Sylvester is making them lose weight?' Her voice is level, almost too calm. It makes me even more nervous.

'You're not going to tell me to butt out, are you? Because I don't care what you think, it's _not_ healthy and Kurt-'

'I'm not trying to get you to stop. I'm offering to help. I'll talk to Mercedes.'

For a moment, I stare at her. Quinn Fabray, the beautiful, skinny (baby-bump aside) blonde girl who used to be head-cheerleader. What kind of advice could she possibly give that would help Mercedes?

'Why?'

'Because you're right. It's not healthy.' She sits down. 'You know, I used to be just like them, with the shakes and the dieting…but I stopped when I realized I was pregnant. When you start eating for somebody else, so that they can grow and be healthy, your relationship to food changes. I realized that if I'm still willing to eat right to take care of this baby, why am I not willing to do it for myself?' The speech feels rehearsed.

'And the moral of the story is? Yeah, whatever, you're self-conscious too and eating's important. Still, you're _Quinn Fabray_, what do you care about Mercedes or Kurt?'

'I wasn't always _Quinn Fabray_, you know.' She says, standing up and making for the door.

For some reason I get the feeling there's a lot more to that statement than she's letting on.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

There is way too much going on in my life, I decide, as I head from the football field towards the locker room. I have no idea which problem is the most problematic, so I'm dealing with the easiest one first. Finn's a lot simpler than you, and I mean that in the nicest way possible; he's a lot less likely to argue with me. So first on my list is to reassure Finn that you're "cool", and then I can worry about your imminent starvation.

I approach Finn, and with a quick, 'Hey, Hudson!' he's looking my way while doing up his shoelaces (very slowly, I notice.)

'Hey.' He replies, the way a dude replies to another dude when they're having a dude…ish conversation.

Only, I know this is going to get very awkward _very_ quickly, so I just blurt it out before he puts his guard up. 'It's about Kurt.' He freezes, and his face contorts into a weird, constipated expression. Oh, god, this is going to suck.

'He didn't say something weird about me, did he?' He asks, suspiciously. I frown; he really does think you have a crush on him. Not that I would blame you, considering that my thoughts about Finn haven't always been 100% innocent.

'Actually, no. He just wanted me to say that there was no…um, no weirdness to worry about. He's…uh, he's not interested in you, and he doesn't want it to be awkward.'

Somehow, I think it could have come out better than that, but oh well. Finn audibly sighs with relief.

'That…that's good to know. It's just weird, you know?' I feel the word _weird_ has been way overused in this conversation, especially since it seems ever so slightly synonymous with_gay._ 'He's so…I just don't know if I could _live_ with that, dude!'

'He's so what?' I echo, trying to keep expression blank.

Finn looks up at me, the confusion in his face obvious. 'What?'

'You said, "he's so" and then you stopped.' I say, my voice coming out lower than intended, 'What did you mean?'

'Come on, dude. You _know_ what I mean.'

'You mean he's gay?' Something dark is building up in my chest and I can't help that my voice sounds pinched and my hands are clenching into fists. Finn doesn't seem to have noticed, though, and carries on in ignorance.

'Well, _yeah._ He's not, you know, _like us._'

'Like _us?'_

'Dude, are you okay?'

'I'm fine.' I mutter, defensively, and then I'm walking away as quickly as I can, and Finn's staring after me like I've lost it. And maybe that's because I did lose it a little.

Because for the first time, I've come to realize that I was wrong: I'm not one of 'us,' like Finn thinks. I'm one of 'them.' And suddenly it feels like I'm the biggest phony in the world. All this time I've been putting up a front, trying to deny who I really am. Everyone sees me as just this guy, this _Karofsky_ kind of guy, the kind of guy who plays football and will grow up to marry some girl, get a job at a midsized insurance firm, and live in a house with white picket fences. And maybe I could have been that guy, once upon a time, but I'm _not _now. I'm the guy who's going to have to fight for his equality, who's might get married, but probably not in Ohio. The guy who's still in Glee club, even though I'm pretty sure Schue wouldn't bust me anymore if I decided to leave. The guy who fell for you, one Kurt Hummel.

(Plus, white picket fences are lame, everyone knows that.)

And if I'm supposed to be this guy, this new world Dave, why do I have to keep pretending to be _Karofsky? _Realistically, how bad could it possibly get if I were to come out, to actually be honest about who I am for once?

If I can't do that, then I guess I'm just nobody.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

'Okay, fellas! Grab a gal! Or grab another fella, if that's the way the good lord made ya! 'Cause it's a couple's skate!' a southern accent pours out of the speakers, one we all recognize as April Rhodes. _There's _a person I would quite gladly never see again. The memory of just avoiding groping from the enthusiastic blonde woman makes me shiver.

'And he didn't even notice her new outfit, Dave! I mean, come on, how interesting can basketball _be _anyway?!' I focus just in time to hear you say. We're sort of in our own little corner, as much as we can be, and you've been angry about something Finn related for a little while now. I'm being a total dick, not on purpose but I'm so _distracted _right now.

I've decided to come out to my dad. Baby steps, I know, but in the right direction. But I just don't know how to do it, and I'm so freaking _scared_ that I'm almost guaranteed to mess it up.

'Dave! Are you even listening to me?' you shout, punching me lightly on the arm.

'Sorry. Distracted. What were you saying?'

'Oh, never mind.' a mutter, and I think it's because Finn is skating our way. Half the group is terrible on these things, but he's worse; he's spent more time on the floor than his feet. Brittany swirls past us, and before I know it, she has my arm and is pulling me somewhere to dance with her and Santana. This is all somehow a ploy, I'm sure of it; I fulfill my fake-heterosexual duty by skating around with them for a few minutes before Santana, with a very pointed look, lets me go.

Of course, by the time I skate back over to you, you're pissed at me, with good reason. You move away from me, fast enough to make me realize I shouldn't catch up, even though I could easily. I was on the hockey team long enough to gain some skating skills, ice or not. You roll up to Mercedes and grab her arm, engaging her immediately in conversation.

This is when I give up, rolling over to the side and sitting down in the quieter part of the roller rink. The obnoxious music is still ridiculously loud, and the lights are still bright and twinkling too much, but at least I don't have to dodge my flailing friends. I get about three minutes of peace before Finn approaches, apparently fed up with bruising his knees too.

'Hey.' he says, and I echo him. There's one of those awkward pauses where it's obvious that someone wants to say something but can't figure out how to word it.

'Please don't tell me it's about Kurt.' I murmur, and the shock on his face confirms it. 'Why does everyone think I'm the go-to guy when it comes to Kurt?'

'Uh, well you're the guy who came to me to talk about him yesterday. And you're his best friend.' Finn replies simply. And of course that's what it looks like to everyone else. Best friend. If only he knew. 'I don't want to move in with him.'

'Because he's gay?' I wonder if I sound as bitter as I feel.

'No, I…Burt's a really cool guy, you know?' I'm not sure how that's relevant, but I nod anyway. 'My mom is selling my dad's furniture.'

Okay, now I'm confused. 'She's what?'

'Because my mom wants to move in with Burt. She's selling my dad's furniture, and she won't even listen to me…it's all we have left of him, you know? And she keeps acting like…like he didn't even matter! He's my _dad, _and…and he's a war hero! So why does she keep acting like he's some bad memory she wants to forget?!'

I'm speechless. I've never heard Finn talk about his dad so openly, and it's kind of scary.

'He was a war hero?' I ask, and Finn nods. His eyes look red, but it's hard to tell under the lighting.

'Yeah.' Finn says softly. He's done talking now, and is just staring at the rink floor in despair. Before I can even think of something comforting to say, Mr. Schue is calling the end of practice, again having not performed a single song. All I can do is give Finn what I hope is a comforting pat on the back.

And I officially suck as a human being.

* * *

_~ Ba-bam, baaaam-bam! ~_

* * *

Everyone always says it's difficult coming out to your parents, but they never really get down to the details.

Of course there's the fear of rejection, but more than that, there's the unreasonable fears too, the fears that they'll _hate_ me and throw me out of the house. I half expect my dad to grab me and throw me on a fucking pyre even though I know that whatever I do or…_am, _he'll love me.

The question is, will he love me enough?

'Dad, I'm gay.' I say to the mirror like they do in the rom-coms. It doesn't help.

'I'm gay.' The word feels wrong on my tongue. It feels…dirty. Not at all like when I said it to you. Then, I was proud, I felt freedom in the word but right now I've never felt so constrained.

'I'm gay.' I repeat again. It looks so easy in films, so liberating. Like they actually achieve something when they talk to themselves. I just feel ridiculous. Actually, I feel totally paranoid now, because what if my dad was standing outside my door for some reason and overheard me? Jesus, that would be bad.

Okay, I need to get this over with soon, before I back out. I'm ready. I'm ready.

My hands shake violently as I walk downstairs, somehow managing not to trip and fall along the way. My dad is sat at the table, eating dinner. I'd opted out, deciding to wait until after I told him, at least then I wouldn't throw up with nerves.

'Dad, I need to tell you something.' He looks up from his food, an eyebrow quirked curiously. 'I…um, it's something I've been meaning to tell you for a long time and…and I'm sorry it took 'till now…'

'David, is everything alright?'

I take a deep breath. And another. The words aren't coming, and I feel like I'm about to faint. I sit down at the table, take a moment to calm down and the words finally appear.

'I'm gay, dad.'

The silence is long and horrifying. And then my dad says the three most painful words I've ever heard:

'No, you're not.'

Not 'get out of here,' or 'you're a disgrace.' Just '_no, you're not._' And how the fuck am I supposed to respond to that?! Am I supposed to argue with him? Prove that I'm gay? I don't even want to know what that would involve. My head spins.

'Dad, I'm being serious.'

'You're confused.' He puts down his fork, 'You're just a kid, and you don't know what you want.'

'I know what I want! I want to be with a guy. Kurt_.'_ I can't seem to stop now, 'Kurt Hummel, the guy I'm in Glee with? I like him, Dad. The way that…the way you think I like girls. The way most guys like girls, that's how I feel about him.' The words spill out and I know I shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be letting everything go, but I just can't force myself to shut up. 'And you know what? He likes me too! We're _together_, dad! And if that doesn't make me gay, then what does?!'

'David, please calm down. This is completely normal, you're just…conflicted. You've been spending too much time with Kurt and it's confusing you.'

'Dad!'

'Son, I know you better than anyone-'

'You don't know me at all!' I yell, standing up so quickly the chair rebounds, making a loud bang. 'You think because I like football and don't act like Kurt that I can't be gay?! You're seriously that narrow-minded!?'

My father's face is a mixture of pity and that cool calmness he puts on when he's under pressure. 'I have nothing against gays, David. I just know what they're like, and you're not–'

'I know what I am! I've _finally _accepted it! Why can't you?' My voice breaks as I say it. I'm a picture of wretchedness.

'Because it's not…' he trails off, takes a breath, 'You are not a homosexual, David!'

I stare at him, and I can see it. I can see the disbelief right there in his eyes. It's not even homophobia, it's just _ignorance. _And for me, that's almost as bad. I mean, of course it's great that he's not throwing me out of the house at the idea of it but not to believe me at all? It's like a slap in the face.

I need to get out of here.

'David!' my dad calls after me as I sprint to my room, slamming the door after me.

* * *

Confused, he said. He thinks I'm _confused,_ like I've been tainted by you. I'm not going to deny that I considered that option at least a few times in the past, but that was before I kissed you, before I knew what it was like to be so _free, _before I finally came to terms with who I am. But I know what happened between those two states, and I am _not _sticking around for my dad to figure it out. I…I just can't.

I'm still shaking. I grab my phone out of my pocket and nearly call two other people by accident before I click your name.

'Hello?' You chirp, and even the sound of your voice makes my eyes well up.

'Kurt…can I…I just…' I try to speak, but my throat has gone all blocked and all I can think about it how much I want to hold you right now. God, I need to hold you.

'Dave, are you okay? You sound funny.'

The words don't come easy, but I force them out, 'I just came out to my dad.'

There's silence for a moment. I wonder what you're thinking – probably something along the lines of "why didn't he discuss this with me?" Fuck, why didn't I discuss this with you? I should have spoken to you, should have planned this, and now it's all going wrong. I just want to curl up and cry, but I can't. I have to try and be strong, have to…can't show how utterly pathetic I really am.

'Oh, god. What happened?! Did he…did it go badly?' You sound panicked now, and even after everything I'm still kind of flattered at how much you care.

'He didn't believe me.' I let out a choked laugh, bitter and pained. 'He actually didn't believe me.'

'I'm on my way over.'

'No, it's…' a deep breath again, 'can I come to yours?' I don't want to be a burden, especially with how shit I've been this week, but I don't know who else to ask. I mean, of course you're the first choice but what if you don't want me-

'Of course!' Your answer comes swiftly and without an ounce of hesitation. 'I'll go tell dad you're staying. Do you want me to pick you up?'

'No, I'll…I can drive.' My voice breaks at the end, and I wipe away a few tears. 'I just need to pack some stuff.'

'Okay.' There's a moment of silence, and I swear you take a breath to say something, but stop. A few seconds later, you just say, 'See you in a bit.'

I murmur a goodbye and hang up, throwing my phone onto my bed before sitting down myself. Surprisingly, my dad hasn't been trying to come in, or even talk to me through the door. Maybe he thinks I need to be left alone for a while to rediscover my heterosexuality. Ok, that just sounds wrong.

I grab an overnight bag, one of my old sports ones. My nice one is at school, so this is going to have to do. I barely even look at the clothes I throw in, and I know you'll mock me for that later, but right now it's not a priority. Then, I grab my school bag, shove the essentials in and I'm headed for the door.

'David?' My dad runs up behind me, calling my name. He looks…well, he looks pretty much how I'd expect a guy whose son just came out to him would look, especially if he didn't believe it.

I put on my calmest voice, trying to make it appear like I'm not about to break down crying again. I push past him harder than I should, making for the exit. 'Dad, I'm going to Kurt's. Don't worry.'

'You most certainly are _not!' _he barks, 'We're going to sit down and we're going to talk about this, and we'll get it all straightened out.'

Boy, was _that _a poor choice of words, I think as I slam the door behind me.

You come to the door within milliseconds of me ringing the bell, like you were waiting right beside it for me.

'Hey.' I say in a small voice. You stare at me for a moment before dragging me inside and pulling me into a rib-cracking hug. When you're done cutting off my air supply, you place a small kiss on my lips and smile with wet eyes.

'You're so brave.' you say, and it's obvious you've been crying almost as much as I have.

'Don't really feel it right now. I just ran away.'

'You came out, David, do you have any idea how huge a step that is?'

'But he didn't even believe me!' I snivel, and you mop at me with a tissue as we walk into the living room. 'How am I supposed to go back there when he doesn't even listen to me?'

'Well, you don't have to, not just yet. We're going to figure this out, okay?' Your voice is so soothing, all calm and caring. I'm waved towards the sofa, where I collapse.

'Mmn.' I agree, and I let you curl up beside me. Even the feeling of your body touching mine is comforting, like a hot drink on an icy day. I let you touch my shoulders tentatively, before one hand comes up to stroke my cheek. It's so intimate, so consoling, it feels like coming home after a long holiday. We stay like this for a few minutes, before it occurs to me that we're in the open living room. 'So where's your dad? It's kind of quiet around here.'

'Oh, he's out with Carole and Finn. I was supposed to go, but…'

'Wait,' I sit up, 'you're missing dinner?'

'It's fine, I ate already. Do you want something?' I ignore the niggling feeling in my stomach at that, but nod. Lecturing at you about food probably isn't the best idea right now.

'I kind of skipped dinner. Felt sick earlier. Not that I feel much better now, but I can make myself a sandwich or something if you don't mind?' I'm such a bad house guest, I know.

'I'll help you.' You spring up and grab me by the hand even though we've only been sitting for a few minutes. In the kitchen, you get busy making me food, not letting me near anything. While I enjoy my chicken sandwich, you eat a slice of chicken, as if hoping it will appease me.

About ten minutes later, the door clicks and I hear voices.

'They're back!' You head towards the door, and then look back at me. 'What should I tell my dad?' It's your way of asking if I'm prepared to let him know. And…I guess I am. At least then someone other than Rachel and my dad will know about our relationship. Even if Burt is absolutely terrifying and I think he might murder me if I ever hurt you.

'The truth. Just…not Finn, okay? I'm not ready for that yet.' I say, just before Finn enters the room.

'Dave! Hey!' he gives that lopsided grin of his and goes to do a manly hand grab pat thing that I comply with, all the while trying desperately to formulate my excuse. 'What are you doing here?'

'I…uh…'

'He and his dad had an argument.' You come to the rescue, barging past Finn and raising your eyebrows at me. I try to back you up, but still can't think of anything to say. I'm really, really bad at lying.

'Dude! That sucks, what about?'

There's an awkward silence as I try to make words happen, until you keep talking for me, 'His dad doesn't want him to be in Glee anymore. Right, Dave?'

I make myself nod, and you shrug before pulling your dad aside to another room. I try to speak again, 'Yeah.' I finally choke out, 'He, uh, thinks I should stick to football.'

'That's rough.' Finn says, and thank god it's at this point that Carole comes into the kitchen. We chat about breadstix for a few minutes, and then after the usual farewells, the two Hudsons head home. Burt says goodbye to them at the door and then comes back over to us.

'So, Kurt told me what happened.' I start to explain how I'll leave if it's an inconvenience, but he cuts me off. 'You're welcome to stay as long as you need, kid. But I do have some questions.'

'Uhh, sure. Thanks.'

There's a stern look passed over both of us. 'You two. Are you together?'

'Dad!' The mortification in your voice is evident. Then again, it's not like it's been a long time since you and your dad even discussed the fact that you're gay. Honestly, I'm impressed either of you are keeping such a level head.

'I…um.' I squeak, then glance at you, and you sigh dramatically before nodding. 'Yes, sir.'

'Okay. And this thing, is it serious, or are you just…experimenting?'

'_Dad!'_

I cut in as quickly as I can, my voice still a little too high from panic, 'It's serious, sir. I…um, I care about Kurt a lot.' Heat rises to my cheeks, and I must be turning bright red. Brilliant. I catch you looking over at me, and you're blushing too. Your dad, however, still looks calm.

'Good. Does anyone know?'

'Not yet.' You answer this one for me. 'Dave's still in the closet at school.'

And then, of course, there's that little stretch of awkward silence where I'm probably suppose to interject that I intend to come out really soon. I don't say anything, mostly because I don't know how to put it that I _want _to let people know, but…I just _can't._

'Right, then.' Burt finally fills the gap, 'I'll set the camper bed up in Kurt's room, but I don't want any funny business, okay? Not without my express written permission.'

'Oh my god, dad, we wouldn't – you are _so_ embarrassing.' And with that, you take my hand and drag me into your room. I let myself be pulled along, still a bit in shock. As soon as the door closes, you say, 'Sorry about him.'

'No, it's fine. Your dad is awesome.' I reply, while you throw yourself onto your bed. I follow, slightly tentative. I'm very aware that we're on a _bed_.

'I know.' A smile passes over your lips. I say nothing, and you eventually sit up, as if to check I haven't left. I glance at you, and I must look as nervous as I feel, because you laugh. 'C'mere.' And then, before I can think, you pull me into a kiss.

I wonder if your kisses will ever _not _make me feel like I'm on a rollercoaster. Minus the whole nausea thing, of course. My stomach dips and flutters with nerves and the feeling of your lips against mine, so warm and soft and ever so slightly more curious than usual has me almost melting against you. You're definitely being more assertive than normal, if your wondering hands are anything to go by. Don't think I haven't noticed the casual slip of your fingers below my shirt, playing against my hips. I let myself get lost in the feelings, my own hands wandering to pull you closer, my fingers digging into your shoulders and keeping us together as I feel the slick drag of your tongue against my lips.

God, I could do this forever. If you were the only thing I could ever taste and feel and smell again, I think I'd be eternally happy. I don't think I even feel better than when we're together like this, despite all the bullshit in our lives, no matter what's happening. If I can feel the firmness of your chest pressing against mine, if I can hear your harsh breathing through your nose, your fingers carefully, subtly enjoying the slathers of skin you can reach and oh, god, the noises you make when we really get into this, the little gasps and moans, how can I be anything but happy?

Ah, maybe a little _too _happy.

'Kurt.' I murmur, pulling back. You put a finger to my lips, hushing me, and then you're moving to my neck, and I can feel your teeth brushing against the skin there and _shit fuck damnit._

'Kurt!' My voice makes you jump, and just like that, the spell is broken. You jerk back, your face suddenly darkening to an alarming shade of scarlet. Our legs are tangled together and your hair is sticking up in odd angles from where I was playing with it.

'Oh my god.' You whisper, as if you hadn't even realized what we were doing. Your fingers now play with the bottom of your shirt, pulling it down slightly, and I don't have to look to guess what you're trying to cover. I can't say I'm any better off myself, and I don't really know what to do in this situation. It's pretty obvious that neither of us are ready to go any further. Well, _I'm _certainly not. As for you, I don't really know. Even though there are moments where you seem so sexy, I haven't got a clue what you actually think about sex. Do you even think about it? You're a teenage guy like me, after all, and it's not like I don't have…_urges._

'Sorry.' You murmur, and the look of guilt you're wearing makes me feel horrible. 'I just wanted to know…' Your eyes dip and I shuffle towards you, very tentatively cupping your chin.

'Know what?'

You're about to answer when a knock on the door makes us both leap apart. Fucking typical. You stand, frantically glancing around as if the room is going to give you a solution for your disheveled appearance, before you finally just flatten your hair and invite your dad in. I sit cross-legged on the bed, desperately wishing I had control over my own body.

I'm not sure if it's not obvious what we were doing or if Burt just doesn't want to have to talk about it, but he doesn't mention it while we set up the camper bed. Luckily, just the presence of your father seems to be enough to scare away any excitement I might have had. We all make small talk and totally ignore the giant elephant in the room as I try to be helpful. You make some excuse about your nails and then run off to the bathroom, which leaves me alone with your dad. Thanks.

'Look, kid.' Here it comes. 'I'm not exactly thrilled about you two, you know. Kurt seems too young to be in a relationship, and if I'm completely honest, I don't like the idea of him dating.'

I can't help but panic. Is Burt going to kick me out? I know he seemed fine with this earlier, but that's when you were here, and he wasn't going to say something horrible to me in front of his son.

'Do you want me to leave?' I say, my voice small. The look on his face is answer enough.

'No!' he says, almost sternly. 'When I said you're welcome to stay here as long as you like, I meant it. And if you like, I'd be quite happy to have a word with your old man.' I must look surprised, because he gives a soft laugh. 'Kid, I love my son. And you and I both know that Kurt was always going to be bringing home a guy some day, not a girl. But…and I'm going to sound old fashioned here, but I don't think it ever crossed your dad's mind.'

I think about it for a moment. Of course, by my dad's shock and denial, it's clear that he was never expecting me to be gay. Hell, I didn't expect me to be gay. I thought that I was going to start liking girls eventually, but it just never happened. 'Yeah, you're probably right.'

'The thing is, it doesn't matter if he's thought about it before or not. Because he's going to have to accept it. And our door is always open to you until he does.'

I can't help it, my eyes are welling up. God, I'm pathetic. I dab at my face, 'Thanks, Mr. Hummel. You're awesome.'

'Well, I don't know about that.' A brief smile, and he pats me on the back. 'But you seem like a good kid, and I trust my son's taste.' At that exact moment, said son comes down the stairs, looking nervous. Your dad looks your way, and then back at me and as he gets up to walk away, he adds, 'Don't hurt him.'

You roll your eyes at that, but offer a warm smile when you sit down next to me. 'What did he say?'

'He was pretty much just being awesome.' I reply, and that makes you grin, 'He said my dad's probably just really surprised. And that I can stay here until he figures his shit out.'

'I'm glad. I'd much rather have you as a roommate than Finn. Maybe this will put the whole thing on hold.' I raise my eyebrows at that, 'Oh come on, Finn doesn't want to move in with me. And as much as I appreciate his abs-'

'They are good abs.'

'-why would I want them when I have full access to my gorgeous boyfriend?'

I snort at the word gorgeous, but before I can argue, you silence me with a kiss. A kiss which stays chaste this time, and also unbearably cute. 'Come on,' you say, grabbing your laptop, 'you pick a movie and I'll totally pretend to enjoy it.'

We watch _Terminator, _and you say it's cheesy and terrible, but don't think I miss the squeak you make when Kyle says _"I came back through time for you, Sarah."_

And even though I'm the one who suggests we watch _Terminator 2_ right afterwards, I'm fairly certain it's somehow your idea. You act flippant when you agree, but your eager little hand waves betray you.

When we're finally done with the movie, I get up and move to the camper bed, trying to ignore how your hand sort of slides down my arm as I stand. Your raised eyebrow questions my decision, but we both know sleeping in the same bed is a recipe for disaster.

I've almost forgotten about everything with my dad, until I come down from cleaning my teeth and it strikes me properly that I'm not going home tonight. I stop on the bottom step and sort of freeze, the whole situation suddenly hitting me.

_No, you're not._ My dad's words echo in my ears as if he's standing right in front of me. I feel sick again, like I've just been tackled hard in the stomach.

'Dave?' I hear you say, but I can barely register it. It's like every possible crappy scenario for the future is occurring to me all at once. The idea that I might never be able to be myself in front of my family makes me want to cry. I see fake girlfriends and fake smiles and a whole world of ugly white picket fences, the world that isn't mine. The world that's now so foreign to me.

Your hand slips into mine, and I'm back in the room.

'Dave, it's going to be okay.' You hands slide over my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn't even know were falling. 'We're going to get through this.'

'Yeah.' I choke out, letting you mop at me with a tissue. 'I know.'

I fall asleep with my iPod on, as if it'll drown out my father's words.

* * *

Something happens the next day that I completely miss. Maybe I'm too wound up in my own problems, or maybe it was all too behind the scenes for me to see, but I'm fairly sure Quinn had a hand in all of it.

The morning starts off with us arguing over breakfast. I promise myself I'd leave the whole thing alone for a little while – you are, after all, letting me stay with you. But then your dad makes an offhand comment about you skipping meals and I just _have _to say something. You reward me by snapping that it's none of my business and driving to school without me. I get a lift with Finn, who was actually supposed to be picking us both up. He's been giving me odd looks all morning, like he's figured something out. I ignore it, hoping he'll forget about it.

You don't talk to me all day, which isn't saying _that _much because we only see each other briefly in the hall between class, and you seem to skip lunch entirely. I eat quickly and spend the rest of the break looking for you, but fail. It's only at the end of the break when I remember that the Cheerios have a performance this afternoon. I'm debating skipping it and just waiting for you afterwards when I see Quinn approaching.

'Did you speak to Mercedes?' I ask. She's headed towards the gymnasium with the rest of the school. There's a rumor going around that Coach Sylvester is planning on fumigating the rest of the school to punish anyone who doesn't turn up.

'Go to the pep rally and see for yourself.' She replies, smiling mysteriously. It's a bit creepy, but I follow her anyway. We make small talk on the way, avoiding any serious topics like her relationship with…whoever the crap she's dating right now, or the whole baby thing. Mostly we talk about how much harder Spanish seems this year and our plans for Glee. After what seems like hours of awkwardness, we sit down at the pep rally, on the floor near the front. The place is packed; apparently Coach Sylvester's rumor worked.

The gym falls silent as we wait for the performance to begin. The Cheerios are all set up but there's no sign of Mercedes. There's an awkward silence before the squeaking of trainers is followed by her standing in front of the group.

'Hey guys, I'm Mercedes Jones.'

This doesn't feel planned. The Cheerios behind her are twitchy, whispering between themselves. I see you glance over your shoulder at Mercedes nervously.

'So most of you know, Cheerios is about perfection and winning. Looking hot and being popular. Well, I think it should be about something different.'

_Definitely _not planned. Coach Sylvester would have never suggested anything like this. What the hell is Mercedes doing?

'How many of you at this school feel fat?' There's a long pause, and a hand or two rises around me. Quinn, surprisingly bold, holds her hand up high, like she's proud. Filled with a sudden rush of assurance, I raise mine too.

'How many of you feel like maybe you're not worth very much, or you're ugly, like your have too many pimples and not enough friends?' Pretty much everyone has their hands up now. Even Jesse, who I thought was the most secure guy ever. 'Well, I've felt all those things about myself. Hell, I've felt most of those things about myself today. And that just 'aint right. So we've got something to say about it, and if you like what we have to say, come down and sing it with us.'

A piano tune starts, and I don't recognize the song at first. But then Mercedes starts singing. It's that _I Am Beautiful_ song, whatever it's called. And it's amazing. Mercedes' voice blasts through the gym, so powerful and strong in so many more ways than the ones we can hear.

_'I am beautiful, no matter what they say, yes words can't bring me down.'_

The rest of the Cheerios join in, a chorus of empowerment, but your back is still turned. I keep my eyes on you, the only one still facing the back of the gym, until I suddenly find myself being dragged to my feet by Quinn. We walk over to Mercedes, and even though I don't really know the words to the verses, I know the chorus. I squeeze Mercedes' shoulder as I pass her, smiling warmly. I know my eyes are watery and I'm on the brink of tears, but she smiles back, so happy, and I know she means every word she's singing.

I reach you just as the second chorus starts. Your shoulders are shaking violently, and it takes me a second to realize you're crying. No wonder you haven't joined in. I wish more than anything that I could comfort you properly right now, but I know that there are a thousand eyes on us right now. The Cheerios provide enough of a shield that I feel safe to wipe away some of your tears and take your hand, squeezing tightly. Getting far too brazen, I join in with the second chorus, _'You are beautiful, in every single way, yes words can't bring you down.' _You smile through your tears, and then I'm not even sure if you're crying or laughing.

This would be the perfect time to kiss you. Instead, I can't even hug you for fear of the people around us seeing. And then you're gone from me, going to speak to Mercedes as she ends the song. 'Thank you,' I hear you saying, 'I was wrong.'

You and Mercedes hug, and I'm mobbed by elated Cheerios. Even Santana is smiling and laughing. The crowd is all standing, and those who aren't in the stands surround us, cheering. The school stands united, every single shape and size student joined in celebrating our collective beauty.

I gotta say, it's kind of wonderful.

* * *

~_ Briiiing! ~_

* * *

The choir room is deserted. Glee club is cancelled for today, so everyone went home early, but we both lagged behind. 'That was some performance.' I say, smiling gently. You're sat at the piano, absently playing a chord.

'Yeah, it was.'

'And quite a message, too.' My voice is a little teasing. You budge over and I sit down, placing my fingers on the piano as if I know what I'm doing.

'Mmn.' You agree, and your reach over and put your hands on mine, guiding them to the right notes. You press down, and the piano plays that _Defying Gravity _chord you love so much.

'Does this mean you're going to have more than celery for dinner?' I ask, a little tentative. For a moment, I'm worried this will start another argument, but you answer me with a gorgeous smile.

'I was thinking you could take me to Breadstix and buy me something horribly unhealthy.' you say, grinning.

'Happy to oblige.' I say, and with a moment's hesitation, I lean in to kiss you. You happily receive me, wrapping your arms around my shoulders. We stay there, kissing gently for a little while before I notice something and pull back. 'Did you have one of those Sylvester shake things?'

'Maybe.'

'Yeah.' I pull a face, 'You taste like sand.'

'Oh, don't remind me. I think it had ipecac in it, I thought I was going to hurl.'

'Ew.' I reply, but I place another quick peck on your lips anyway. Then, I draw back a little and regard you seriously, 'Look, I'm sorry for being such a jerk this week. I've been kind of a terrible boyfriend.'

You seem surprised that I'm apologizing. I'm not sure why, because I've pretty much been horrible to you in the wake of my own problems. 'That's okay. You were a little preoccupied. And I'm sorry I've been…ah. Drinking sand.'

'Totally forgiven. You are…' I nearly say something, but stop myself, 'ah, this is going to sound so corny now.'

That makes you pull away from me, the corners of your eyes wrinkling with your smile. I _know _you know what I was going to say, 'Oh, come on! You can't leave me hanging like that!'

Oh, you definitely know. And the more I stall, the worse it will sound, 'No, no! It's so cheesy, you'll hate me.'

You actually poke me on the forehead for that, but you're still smiling madly, 'I love cheesy, you idiot! Say it.'

I take a deep breath. Prepare myself for the humiliation. Come on, Dave, suck it up. 'You are beautiful…' When you start laughing, I can't hold it in, I burst into laughter too, and I have to take a few gasping breaths before I can finish, 'no matter what they say.'

You really much love cheesy, because the kiss you give me is of epic proportions. When we break apart again, I see your eyes are full of tears. 'You're not just saying that?'

'Fuck, no. And I'll be happy to remind you every day if that's what it takes.'

'You can start by paying for dinner.'

It's far too obvious that something's wrong when we get back to the house and you find the note from your dad. You've been smiling madly all evening, but I see your face drop reading it. You don't look at me, though, crumpling it and throwing it into the bin.

I try to stay casual, even though it's obvious you're upset. 'What's up? Where's your dad?'

'Oh. Out. He's at Finn's house. W-watching a game.' You try and brush me off, walking to your room and dropping your bag to the floor before sitting on the edge of your bed.

'Are you okay?' I ask, softly, sitting down on the bed next to you. Immediately, you lean against my shoulder, taking one of my hands in yours.

'Dave…will you tell me about football?' You murmur, rubbing your thumb against mine. I can feel you breathing harder than usual, like you're trying to hold back tears.

'Uh, sure? What do you want to know?'

'I don't know…who the best teams are, who wins everything, stuff like that.'

I smile gently, 'Not really how it works. Why are you interested all of a sudden, anyway?'

'No reason. I was just wondering.'

'Kurt.'

'It's nothing, Dave. Just forget I asked.' A single tear drips down your face, and I wipe it away with my thumb.

'You don't have to tell me. Just…I'm here, okay?' I say, and you nod, more tears wetting your cheeks. A moment later, you hold out your arms, and I pull you into a tight embrace, hugging you tight as you bury your face in my chest.

A murmured thank you, a kiss on the cheek, and there we lie, bodies curled together until you eventually fall asleep in my arms.

Call me corny, but I've never felt more at home.

* * *

_~ Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo... ~_


End file.
